


Sleepsong (You'll Come Undone)

by melizajoyt



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty has feelings, Blood and Injury, Counseling, Dreams, Eric takes a hit during a game, Eric's sophomore year, Getting Together, Halloween, Happy Ending, Hockey, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, Locker Room, M/M, Parties, Seeking Help, Showers, Stress Baking, and an awful practice, everyone wants to take care of Bitty, good captain Jack, it might get more angsty..., teammates taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-13 14:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melizajoyt/pseuds/melizajoyt
Summary: The dreams start two weeks into pre-season practices and it’s weird. At first, Eric doesn’t really remember them and he wakes suddenly with a strange tightness in his chest and the vague feeling that there is something he’s supposed to be doing, but he has no idea what. When he finally figures it out he feels like he’s fourteen all over again, his mom finding him up in the middle of the night, baking pies and soufflés to try and forget his nightmares and the stupid gorillas at school. All he wants is for it stop.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 47
Kudos: 137





	1. Sleeping and Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> This has just been burning a whole in my laptop for years and I've just never done anything with it. I also haven't read any Check, Please! for probably two years? I fell in love with the comic so much that I couldn't handle waiting for updates so now I'm pretty much just waiting for it to be completely finished so I can read it all in one go. So, this little drabble takes place at the beginning of Bitty's sophomore year and I think that's about all you need to know!

The dreams start two weeks into pre-season practices and it’s _weird_. At first, Eric doesn’t really remember them and he wakes suddenly with a strange tightness in his chest and the vague feeling that there is something he’s supposed to be doing, but he has no idea what. When he finally figures it out he feels like he’s fourteen all over again, his mom finding him up in the middle of the night, baking pies and soufflés to try and forget his nightmares and the stupid gorillas at school. All he wants is for it stop.

It happens on a Thursday, during practice no less.

Holster checks him into boards, nothing that him and Jack haven’t practiced a thousand times before and it’s not even that hard of a check, but this time he hits the ground like a sack of potatoes and he sees spots even though his head didn’t hit the ice. And just like that he _remembers_. It’s like a movie playing in his head and he watches himself walking beside Jack, their hands intertwined in a way he never lets himself think about when he’s awake. He sees Jack turn and smile at him, looking happy in a way he’s never seen in real life and—just like that he’s back at Samwell, Shitty and Coach Hall crouched over him on the ice and past them he can see Ransom of all people sending Holster a dangerous look as he says, “Dude, what did you _do_?”

Holster has his hands up at his sides and his eyes keep flicking over to Eric in concern. “I didn’t do anything, bro, I swear! It wasn’t even a hard check. C’mon, I wouldn’t do something like that to Bitty.”

“I’m fine,” Eric says, sitting up and the world spins dizzily for a moment before righting itself and he suddenly becomes aware of his mouth shaped into a grimace so he works to try and straighten it to something more convincing. A quick glance around tells him that nobody buys it.

“Get him off the ice. You’re done for the day, Bittle,” Coach Hall says as him and Shitty grab him by the elbows and haul him up.

Eric can feel Jack’s gaze on him as Shitty helps him off the ice, but he keeps his head down and tries not to think about the happy image of Jack in his head, smiling wide and easy. He undresses and showers in a daze, his hands on autopilot as he scrapes his nails through his blonde hair. All of sudden he wants to punch something or yell out in the empty locker room, but he bites the inside of his cheek and reaches for the soap instead. He tries not to feel like he’s slipping.

He takes too much time and when he finally turns off the shower the guys are starting to pour in from practice, sweaty, panting, but happy with a good days work. He envies them. He changes quickly, manages to dodge Holster’s apologies because honestly, _it’s not his fault_, and he tells him as much three times in a row before finally booking it out of there like his socks are on fire.

His hands are shaking so he stuffs them in his pockets and trudges his way back to the Haus; thankfully, it isn’t raining, but the weather is definitely starting to cool down quick as the summer heat fades to fall. It makes him miss Georgia. The walk from Faber to the Haus isn’t too long, but he winds up taking an even longer route and it isn’t until he’s picked the third detour around another building that he realizes he’s avoiding going back. He knows he should head back before the guys and Lardo get worried, but something keeps his feet from heading in that direction like there’s some kind of force field that won’t let him get any closer. In the end, Jack finds him wandering aimlessly down one of the trails he usually runs on an off day.

“Bittle!”

He looks over his shoulder and ignores the way his heart thuds against his ribcage. He stops though and watches as Jack jogs towards him, stopping in front of him, his hair still damp from his post-scrimmage shower. “We got back to the Haus, but you weren’t there. You okay?” he asks.

Eric tries not to think about Jack worrying about him to the point that he’d go out looking for him. He scuffs his shoe against the path and shrugs in a way that he knows isn’t like himself. “Yeah, I- I’m fine. You don’t have to worry. Really.” It sounds flat even to him.

Jack must think so too because the crease on his brow deepens and his eyes assess him critically. “You want to get coffee?”

“Wh- right now?” Eric asks.

“Yeah, c’mon. I’ll even buy,” Jack says and he’s already walking in the direction of the little café on campus.

“Okay,” Eric says faintly and he catches up with Jack, matching his long legged stride with his own quick steps.

They spend the entire walk in silence with Eric sending Jack little glances every few feet, trying to figure out what he’s doing. Sure, they’ve spent time together outside of practice, during check clinics or out with the boys or just hanging at the Haus, but the clinics don’t allow for a lot of chit-chat and when they’re around the team it’s different. And now that they’re actually on their own, no one else even in the vicinity, Jack is almost eerily quiet. Eric gets the feeling he’s about to fall into a trap, he just can’t for the life of him figure out how.

Eric doesn’t want to be weird and break the silence and he’s a little baffled, but Jack seems genuinely content with the quiet so he lets it be. It isn’t until they’re in the café, standing next to the register to order that Jack says something and even then it’s Eric that talks first. Jack raises an eyebrow at Eric, letting him know to order first and as soon as he gets out, “Pumpkin Spice Latte, please,” Jack is slipping in a smooth, “and I’ll have the same. Oh and a chocolate chip cookie, please,” as he hands over a twenty dollar bill to the barista and tells her to keep the change.

They move to the side to wait for their order and Eric can’t help the way his lips twitch up at the corners. “Have you ever had a Pumpkin Spice Latte?”

Jack shakes his head, “will I not like it?” he asks curiously.

Eric laughs, some tension leaking out of his shoulders as he lets himself take in the familiar sounds of clinking spoons, cups and the clang and whirl of the machines behind the counter. “I’ll be personally offended if you _don’t_ like it.”

There’s a smile playing around the edge of Jack’s mouth when he looks at him and it simultaneously makes Eric’s heart feel like a balloon filling up and like his chest is being crushed in a vice-like grip. He wishes it were easier to breathe around Jack.

“Well, if it’s anything as good as your pies, then I’ll love it,” Jack says and Eric blushes all the way up to the roots of his hair.

Jacks name is called a moment after that so they collect their drinks and Jack leads them to a fairly secluded corner table. When Eric takes the seat opposite him, a crinkly little bag with a single chocolate chip cookie slides across the table and stops neatly next to his latte.

When he looks up, his eyes wide and surprised, Jack just shrugs. “I know it’s not your cheat day, but uh, well you make us pies all the time,” he finishes awkwardly and Eric thinks he might actually die because he’s pretty sure Jack Zimmerman is _blushing_ and that he gave Eric a _fucking cookie _because he had a shitty practice.

“Thanks, Jack,” is all he says, but he catches Jack’s eye and he thinks he realizes how big this is for Eric because he nods just a smidge before lifting his cup to his lips and taking a small sip.

Eric watches his face carefully, one hand absently reaching for a napkin, the other pulling out his phone.

Jack swallows and Eric can see the exact moment the flavor hits him; his blue eyes widen the tiniest amount, his right eyebrow arches up higher than the left and his lips are slightly pursed when he lowers his cup back down.

Eric laughs, high pitched and delighted and the _click_ sound the camera on his phone makes as he takes a picture goes off at the perfect moment.

“It’s very… sweet,” is all Jack says, but he’s smiling so Eric doesn’t think he hates it.

“Oh lord, your reaction was priceless!” he says, chuckling and turning his phone to show Jack the picture and savoring the way it makes him roll his eyes.

“Is that going to end up on Twitter?”

“Already is,” Eric says, shooting a grin in Jacks direction as he taps away at his phone’s screen before setting it aside.

“Maybe I should get a Twitter account; retaliate.”

If Eric didn’t know any better he’d almost think Jack was flirting with him. But he does know better.

“Hah. Goodluck! I’d love to see Jack Zimmerman master social media just to start a war with me that he would certainly end up losing.”

Jack grins briefly and chuckles, taking another sip of his drink. A more comfortable silence falls between them and Eric fills it by reaching for the cookie. He breaks it in half, sets one piece on the napkin and nudges it in Jack’s direction. “If I’m eating a cookie on a non-cheat day, then so are you, mister.”

“Fair enough.”

The chocolate melts on his tongue and the cookie is just the right amount of soft. It’s delicious and reminds him that they both just had a practice; they should have a real meal soon. He thinks again about Jack heading out after finding out Eric wasn’t at the Haus, not even knowing where he could be, but wanting to look anyway. He takes a drink and brushes his fingertips on his pants and tells himself the warmth filling him is just the hot latte sliding down his throat.

Is he crazy? This feels oddly like a date. Oh boy, does he wish.

“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” Jack starts, “but _something _happened today, Bitty. We’ve been practicing checks and I know that I’ve been busier lately with my agent and school and- and all that, but you should’ve come to me if things were getting worse-”

“They haven’t been getting worse.” Eric is quick to reassure, he doesn’t want Jack thinking he’s a bad captain. He doesn’t want Jack to think this is somehow his fault because that’s so far from the truth. He thinks back to his talk at the end of last years season with Coach Murray and Coach Hall and tries not to feel shameful. He knows he hasn’t been playing his best, but things have been getting better, he recovered from his concussion and practices have been going well up until today when he apparently reverted back to the same player he was a year ago. It’s scary to think he’s regressed that far. He knows one incident doesn’t mean he has completely back-peddled, but it’s hard not to connect the dots.

“One bad practice doesn’t define your game,” Jack says with a shake of his head, as if he could read Eric’s thoughts and maybe he’s not being very subtle with his expressions.

Jack falls quiet then and Eric feels like this is the time when he would open up, that Jack’s waiting for it, but he doesn’t know what to say, ‘sorry, I have this recurring dream about you and I together and I didn’t realize it until today, but it’s been happening for weeks now’? Yeah, that’ll go over great. All of a sudden he feels like such a waste of space. Jack is a busy guy, heck, he’s been trying to decide which NHL team he wants to sign with once he’s finished with college and on top of that he has to keep up with his homework AND captain Samwell’s hockey team. And here he is sitting across from Eric, fulfilling his captain-ly duty to check in on him and frankly, Eric is wasting his time.

He knows he can’t help his feelings, he really does, but at this point he feels like his stupid heart should know better than to fall for straight guys. He’s not in a good place.

“This is all so silly of me, it’s probably just because I haven’t been sleeping as well lately. It’s-” He wants to say that he’s just adjusting to life at school as a sophomore, but he loves Samwell and Jack would see right through him and besides he hates lying, especially to Jack, so his sentence stops abruptly and doesn’t sound nearly as reassuring as he wanted it to so he shakes his head like he’s at a loss for words.

Jack nods though, like he gets it and bless his soul, Eric believes him.

“I know things get tough sometimes,” he says and leans more of his upper weight onto his elbows that are placed up on the table, his large hands enveloping his coffee cup like he wants to capture the warmth there between his palms and never let it escape. “They don’t have to stay that way though.” This time when he looks up at Eric his blue eyes are soft and open, a stray lock of dark hair flopping down over his forehead a little lower than all the rest. Eric thinks idly that he needs a haircut and the rest of him is caught up thinking how beautiful he looks. Jack’s lips are red from the warm drink and they look soft and full. He wants to kiss him. Not even for himself really, just to show that he appreciates that Jack cares about him. To show him how much it matters to have a Captain who genuinely gives a fuck about his team. To thank him.

He clears his throat, ignores how watery his eyes have gotten and whispers, “thank you.”

“You’ll be okay, Bitty,” Jack says and Eric wants to believe him so bad it hurts.

When they make it back to a Haus kitchen filled with mostly empty take-out containers and an apologetic Ransom, Eric just sighs and starts to clean up. Jack helps him and then dishes them both out some healthy leftovers from a dinner Eric made a couple nights earlier while he wipes down the countertops of bits of chow mein, fried rice and kung pow chicken. It’s heated up in the microwave and when it’s ready Jack and Eric sit down at the table and eat quietly. Eric’s thoughts start to wander to his homework until they don’t and then he wonders what Jack is thinking about where he sits across from him.

Holster interrupts their meal before Eric can build up the courage to ask in a way totally fit for casual conversation.

He bounds around the corner and knocks his knuckles against the wood table a couple times, bounces on the balls of his feet. “Hey, Bits! Look, about earlier, I’m really-”

“Holster, we talked about this. It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong,” Eric says, eyes wide and convincing, his fork still halfway up to his mouth.

Holster glances from Jack to Eric and nods, looking a bit cowed. He settles his weight down more comfortably, no more rocking or bouncing. Eric realizes pretty quick that he’d just seen Holster nervous.

“Yeah, I know. Just wanted to be sure you were okay, bro, you know?” Holster asks.

Eric smiles softly then and nods. “Thanks.”

After Holster disappears, grabbing a container of extra pie Eric had made earlier on his way out, Eric’s eyes fall on Jack, who seems to be chewing thoughtfully. He wants to ask again what’s going on in his head.

“You fit in well here, with the team,” Jack says quietly.

Eric lowers his fork back down to his plate and sits up a little straighter.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner,” he continues, lifting his eyes from his plate to meet Eric’s gaze.

Eric remembers those rougher patches last season and how much he thought Jack hated him. A tiny voice in his head wonders if Jack would hate him for real if he found out how he felt about him. Things are different now, though. Jack isn’t that same guy he was when Eric first arrived at Samwell. He doesn’t ever want to let this Jack go.

His voice is soft when he says, “Thank you, Jack.”


	2. Napping and Sleeping Are Almost the Same Until They Aren't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric tries not to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating, I hope the holidays treat you well. There is a long, rambling list of things that I'm grateful for that I won't bore you with, but I do want to say that writing this little thing is one of them. And by virtue of that, all of the people who have left kudos and comments-thank you!

The problem, Eric quickly realizes, with remembering his dreams is that now he thinks about them constantly. What’s worse is the nagging feeling he gets that tells him to do something stupid like confess his feelings. Not even, necessarily, to Jack. Although, sometimes late at night, he imagines doing that too.

The night before, Eric had almost walked right past Shitty studying downstairs in the Haus, but he’d stopped instead, long enough for Shitty to look up and notice. It was so innocuous, but that was exactly what had him nearly opening his mouth to ask what it meant when you dreamt about someone every night for a week. Instead, he’d stammered out some question about where everyone was—the Haus was suspiciously quiet. When he’d finally escaped back to his room he was grateful that Shitty hadn’t had the energy to be more observant.

It’s just gotten more and more out of hand since.

He tries to sleep less.

He’s not crazy enough to skip straight to no sleep; he wants the dreams to stop. That’s all. It sounds simple on paper to switch to short naps that end before he can reach deep enough sleep that he starts dreaming. He even does a brief web search on ‘how to stop dreaming’ but the results all mention nightmares and he grits his teeth in annoyance. He might be the only person on the planet that wants to stop the best dreams he’s ever had and all because it’s not the dreams that are too much. It’s waking up.

Day after day of seeing Jack at practices, around the Haus, in the library; it weighs on him. He notices exactly how massive the gap is between them. Jack is busy, focused and worried about a lot more than himself. He has plans for his future and Eric can’t help but look at his own mix of classes that could pull him in a thousand different directions. Eric doesn’t have a plan and Jack’s world seems so much broader. There are agents, reporters, coaches, fans, professors, bloggers and just _more_. When Eric watches Jack he knows he’s not the only one. Jack seems to pull people in without trying and he’s good as a leader because he gives so much of himself and his time to the things he’s dedicated to. It’s more depressing than Eric usually likes to be, but honestly, his own story just seems so _boring_. So small town. So unimportant. He’s exhausted by himself.

He’s exhausted by the lack of sleep.

The naps don’t help. They work in the short term and they do eliminate the dreams, but they wear him down over a longer stint and it’s beginning to show. He yawns a lot more. He concentrates less. He feels tired almost all the time. His body is working overtime to skip back and forth between vaguely resting, attending classes, studying, and team practices. It’s a crappy experiment and he’s already resigned himself to switching back to a normal schedule when Jack catches up with him after another bad practice.

It hadn’t been as bad as the last; Eric was careful of that. The last thing he wanted was to call more attention to himself, but there was only so much he could do when it was clear he just didn’t have the energy. He was so tired, limbs heavy and a vague throbbing in his head that started two days before. It was Thursday. All he had to do was make it through one more day and then he could sleep all of Saturday if he needed. And it certainly felt like he needed to.

“Bittle,” Jack calls to him before he can reach the locker room.

The rest of the team is shuffling by, headed inside for the showers and maybe it’s just because Eric’s so tired he could sleep on one of the rink benches, but he swears he catches a few of the guys glancing his way with apprehensive expressions. Even some of the frogs. Like they think he’s going to get in trouble. They’re probably right.

Eric stops and takes a couple steps out of the way of everyone. His mood is dark and he keeps his gaze down when Jack’s lumbering form approaches him. The door to the locker room swings to a final shut behind the last player. He has a good guess as to what his captain has to say to him.

“What’s going on with you?”

It’s not the edged, frustrated tone he’s expecting. Jack’s words are quiet and laced with concern that catches Eric’s eyes and drags them up.

Almost as soon as he reads the innocent confusion in his captain’s face he slants his gaze to the side. He doesn’t feel like he’s worth that much worry. He knows he’s not. Guilt makes his cheeks bloom red and Eric shakes his head.

“Rough week,” he mumbles finally.

“Is it your schedule? The classes? If it’s too much, we can talk with Hall and Murray—”

“No, no. It’s not my classes,” Eric cuts in quickly.

Jack’s looks exasperated, head tilted to the side and a furrow to his brow like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle. “It’s something though,” he muses, “the whole team can tell. I’ve had six different people this week come to me asking if you’re alright.”

Eric feels the heat in his cheeks flare up. He almost longs for the days when Jack would yell at him. That, at least, didn’t allow for any misinterpretation. This gentle, prying fretfulness over his wellbeing will only make him feel worse. Jack is just being a good captain.

“It’s not really one thing,” is what Eric finally settles on because it is technically true. “Look, you don’t have to do this. I know, I’ve been off in practice and I’m sorry, I promise the next one will be better. I just need—” his throat feels like gravel when he swallows.

“What?”

When Eric looks up again it’s into those blue eyes that he sees every night in his dreams and his chest hurts like he had the wind knocked out of him. Lord, he doesn’t know how to survive this. It’s nothing like other crushes and of those, he’s had plenty.

“S-sleep,” he croaks, defeated.

There’s a long pause while they look at each other and Eric feels Jack’s piercing gaze like hands on his body. It traces his face, follows the slump of his shoulders down and catalogs the weakness in his knees, the way he leans against the wall with a little too much dependence on it keeping him vertical.

“Okay.”

Eric blinks and it’s heavy. The pounding in his head has only worsened since the end of practice.

“Shower up and then meet me outside. I’ll walk you back to the Haus,” Jack says. When Eric opens his mouth to protest, Jack shakes his head. “You’re dead on your feet, Bittle. I’ll walk you back, okay? Hit the showers.”

He feels bad making Jack wait, but he just can’t get his sluggish body to go any faster. It takes him five minutes just to get out of his gear and into the shower and for a while he just lets the water run over him. He barely notices his teammates nearby, all of the noise fades away as he stares at the drain. If only he could rinse out the dreams from his head, he thinks weakly.

Jack is waiting for him just like he said he’d be. The long line of his body leaned against Faber, his phone between his hands as he taps away at the screen. It feels strange to see Jack so invested in something on his phone. He uses it so rarely.

Eric scuffs his shoe because his feet are dragging when he walks over and the sound draws Jack’s attention.

“You really didn’t have to wait for me,” he mumbles.

Jack straightens up and reaches out toward his shoulder. Eric’s heart does some stupid flipping act in his chest until he realizes that Jack is grabbing his bag from his shoulder and slinging it over his own.

“C’mon. Let’s get you back to the Haus in one piece.”

He huffs, but follows his captain’s lead.

Usually, Eric struggles to keep up with Jack on a good day and it doesn’t escape his notice that he purposefully slows his steps to stay next to his small, stumbling ones. It’s quiet and the sun is almost gone, setting everything around them in shadows and the last golden light of the day. There’s a chill in the air that seems colder than it was the day before. Eric hugs his jacket closer around his middle and shivers. When he glances to the side, Jack is unbothered and relaxed despite the cool bite in the breeze.

“You don’t like people worrying over you.” It’s not a question and Eric is startled by the words because Jack’s gaze is still firmly focused in front of him.

“Not so much.” The words are out of his mouth before he can make the choice to speak and he frowns. This is bad. He shouldn’t be near Jack when he’s this tired.

“Why?”

Fuck. That’s not a fun question. Eric doesn’t want to admit that it’s because people are putting their worry into something they shouldn’t. He’s not worth all that concern. He just needs time to himself to figure this mess out on his own. Get his head on the right way again. Without noticing, his mouth flattens to an unhappy line.

He’s still struggling with his thoughts when Jack speaks up again, “I told Lardo to order food and she set aside some specifically for you. I want you to eat when we get to the Haus, then go to bed. I don’t care if you have homework—you can leave it be for one night.”

They round the corner to the Haus and Eric feels like he can’t quite keep up with anything anymore. Like why Jack would just drop their conversation so easily. Why he’s going so far above and beyond what a captain should really be doing for a teammate. Is this something that Jack would do for just anyone? Well, maybe not _anyone_, he amends. Jack is about as private as a person can be. He’s well known by many, but Eric can only think of a handful that Jack spends time with doing non-hockey related activities. And Eric isn’t one of those people. Sure, there have been a couple quiet moments between them, but nothing that hadn’t somehow related to Eric’s performance on the ice.

“The team is worried about you and if so much attention makes you uncomfortable; I can tell them to back off, but you’re part of the team. We take care of each other. You don’t need to tell me or anyone else what’s going on if you don’t want, but maybe… you should tell someone. There are counselors at the school,” Jack says.

Eric blushes, but the idea doesn’t actually sound like a horrible one. He can’t talk to anyone on the team about his feelings for obvious reasons. He can’t call home and moan about his unrequited crush, also, for obvious reasons. A counselor on the other hand… well they’re not allowed to just share around what he says to them. It’s kind of the perfect solution.

“I- I hadn’t thought of that,” he admits.

“It’s a good place to start.” Jack nods with his words and they climb up the few steps to the Haus doors. Jack holds the door for him and inside he’s met with a warm house and the familiar smell of barbequed chicken. The team is scattered casually around the kitchen and throughout the living room, but something about it feels careful. Almost staged. Too many of them are not looking directly at him in a way that makes it clear it’s because they know he’s there. He realizes with a start that they don’t want to overwhelm him.

Jack puts his hand on the middle of his back when he doesn’t move any further and guides him into the kitchen where Lardo, Shitty, Holster and Ransom are all sitting, take out containers scattered on the counters and across the table.

“Hey, Bits! Get over here, Lardo’s been fighting off these two to keep your food from being inhaled,” Shitty says, waving him in.

“It’s not our fault Jack shelled out for that good southern shit,” Ransom argues.

Holster has some kind of dark, red sauce all over his face. “Yeah, Bitty, the food of your people is addicting.” It kind of looks like he’s gnawing at what might be a bone, but there is literally sticky sauce all over the man and Eric doesn’t want to look too closely.

Eric makes his way to the table and sits down at the chair seemingly waiting just for him. The plate Lardo sets in front of him is piled high with all the comfort dishes that Eric grew up on; corn pudding, a variety of barbequed meat, bread, collard greens, mac and cheese. There’s a little bit of everything. It makes his eyes water. The homesickness had played a small, but persistent part in his mood deteriorating over the last week on top of everything else. He knows Massachusetts can’t hold a flame to his mama’s cooking, but even having something vaguely resembling what he’d have at home is more than good enough for him.

His eyes are cloudy when he looks up at Lardo and he mumbles his thanks. It’s piss-poor manners on his part, but he’s too tired and emotional to care. And he doesn’t think anyone at the table will be offended by his quiet gratitude. Thankfully, no one mentions the tears pooling in his eyes as he tucks into his dinner and lets the sound of their banter wash over him. Jack isn’t there and Eric wonders where he disappeared to as he chews slowly, savoring each bite as it comes and eating around his plate in a circle. By the time he’s done his eyes are drooping to a close and he’s wilting over the table, but his stomach is comfortably full and the throbbing behind his eyes began to fade after his second glass of water.

“Bits, you better hit the sack,” Holster says, but it’s Shitty that helps him upstairs. If he was any more alert he’d mention how ridiculous it is to not only be walked all the way back to the Haus, but monitored all the way up to his bedroom door. As it is, he leans into the supporting hand on his elbow and lets Shitty do all the work. Standing is hard. How did he never realize how much effort goes into standing up?

“Get some fucking sleep, alright, Bitty?”

Eric nods and weakly waves goodnight as he opens his door, tearing up again just at the sight of his bed and the knowledge that he’s actually going to be able to sleep.

He takes two steps and trips.

It’s his bag from practice. He frowns as he remembers that Jack took it from him and must’ve put in there. On top of paying for a plethora of food just so that he could feel a little bit of comfort.

As much as he’d love to sit around on the floor, staring at his hockey bag and wondering what _exactly _was going through his captain’s head, he really needs to sleep.

It takes some flopping, crawling and wiggling but he manages to climb onto his bed and shuck off his clothes before burrowing into his pillow and finally letting some tears flow. Most of them are happy tears at being wrapped up in his bed with the assurance of a long night’s sleep ahead of him, but a few are a release of all the pent up stress in his heart and head.

Tucking his chin deeper into the plushy pillow under his head, Eric tiredly stares at the darkened wall his bed is pressed against. He can see some of the small dents in the paint where the edge of a laptop has knocked a little too hard or maybe it was a book or a ruler. It’s a silly thing to do, but he lays and traces those marks over and over with his eyes until the frazzled feeling fades. The sounds of the Haus around and below him help. He can hear the TV downstairs, though it’s so muffled he couldn’t say what game or show someone might be enjoying. Occasionally, a door shuts a little too loudly or there are thudding footsteps on the stairs. It’s a far cry from his home, but he’s come to appreciate these sounds a lot. All the clatter and busyness. He likes knowing there are people around. And, he thinks in the darkness, these people like him. Care about him. Worry about him, even. He might not believe he deserves such caring gestures, but all the same, it’s nice.

Before long the indents in the wall start blurring and he blinks once, twice and then his eyes will open no longer. For the first time in over a week, he doesn’t fight the dragging, sinking sensation that wraps him up warmly and turns his bones to jelly.

When Eric begins that slippery slide into sleep, it’s with a long sigh and a flutter in his chest, the promise of Jack waiting for him just beyond the conscious edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter done! My plan is to post a new chapter each week on Wednesdays so I'll see you next week :)


	3. Awake and Hungry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, oh boy it's been a busy week and it's still only December 4th, but I feel like Christmas is happening next week. Anyway, I hope everyone is having a good week!

It turns out that having a body so royally fucked up from enforcing a strict no-full-sleeps policy for the span of a week doesn’t result in a complete nights rest when that body is finally given permission to sleep again.

Eric wakes up at 5:26 a.m. and he supposes that seven consecutive hours for one night is a pretty big improvement from the three to four hours he’d been getting over the course of any entire day with his napping strategy. Still, there are hours and hours stretching out long and boring in front of him before his first and only class scheduled on Friday’s. There will be more than enough time to get his homework completed.

He manages to lounge on his mattress for fifteen minutes in an attempt to fall back asleep, but he gives up quickly. The floorboards are cold under his feet and he reaches for his jogging clothes as a shiver rolls from the back of his neck all the way down to his ankles. He’s ready for a hard reset to put his day right and today, he’s decided that means getting out and going for a run. The exercise would do him good and maybe the cold air could clear his head.

The Haus is silent when he makes his way downstairs and out the front door. Dew clings to the grass and a light fog hangs low over the roads and surrounding pine trees. He follows his usual running route and listens to the quiet world waking up rather than music. The rhythmic shifting of his weight from one leg to another as he pumps his arms and warms himself makes his lips curl up in a tiny smile. His chin angles towards the light shining through the branches. All week he’d been going through the motions. Especially in practices. It’s lovely to feel his body working again. Guilt boils low in his gut for letting things get so bad. He knows better than to put so much intentional strain on a body that he already demands so much from.

Faced with the brightness of a rising sun and a new day, his mood lifts.

He rounds a bend in the path and almost skids to a complete stop. His panic makes him stumble before righting himself and steadily slowing to a walking pace.

Jack stops in front of him when they meet. “I thought I told you to rest,” he greets and it’s awful because he hardly looks out of breath. His dark hair is windswept and his eyes are so blue and clear it makes thinking coherently a feat.

Eric by comparison is red-faced with sweat rolling down the back of his neck, clothes clinging to him in uncomfortable places. Of course Jack fucking Zimmerman would be the only other human intentionally awake at the crack of dawn on a running path. “I, uh, I did rest. Just couldn’t sleep anymore. Figured I’d get up.”

“You look better.”

It shouldn’t have made his heart race, but him and his body have been butting heads lately. All Eric can manage is some awkward nodding in reply and then, because the silence stretches out just a beat too long he blurts out, “you too.” He can only watch in horror as Jack’s expression turns to one of amused confusion.

“Uh,” he says dumbly, aware of his entire face burning in embarrassment. Eric loses all control over his body at that point and his hands are flailing around as words pour out of his mouth like warm gravy over mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving. “That is n-not what I meant—not that I don’t think you look better! You always look great. Not great like _great_, but more like your normal, everyday Jack, you know? Which is, um, you always look nice obviously. And now it’s just that, but, uh, sweaty—” the word vomit cuts off because he has to swallow and it’s dry and painful and he can’t remember ever being more flustered and he’s a person who gets flustered a lot.

His only saving grace seems to be that he was talking so quickly Jack started frowning, unable to keep up with the flood of babble. The captain takes advantage of the silence and raises his hands to stop anymore from bursting out.

“Bitty, calm down.”

Eric nods, “Right.”

It’s incredible to watch Jack’s eyes soften into something that Eric thinks might be fondness.

“I’m glad you’re feeling more like yourself. Everyone was pretty worried about you,” Jack says.

And just like that the hope swelling in Eric’s chest is squished under a chant of _he’s just being a good captain. The team was worried and that’s why he was so nice_. “Hey, um, thanks for last night. The food? Um, you didn’t have to do all that, Jack,” he says awkwardly.

Jack shrugs like it’s nothing and Eric can’t help but bitterly think that to him it probably is nothing. “I know how tough it can be getting homesick and stacking that with anything else that might be weighing on you… well, everyone could use something familiar now and then. I’m just glad that it helped.”

“Yeah. It was great. I love being here and how different it is, but home is home, right?” Eric says.

The nod he gets in return is comforting and it comes with the easy knowledge that Jack understands. Home for Eric is only a few states away, but Jack moved to different country to come here. On top of missing his home and family, Eric imagines he probably misses a bunch of the small cultural differences between the US and Canada.

“I’ll see you back at the Haus?” Jack asks, looking ready to get back to his run.

“Ahuh, yeah.”

A tiny wave from Eric and then Jack is off, running steadily, the line of his back relaxed.

Nobody is around to hear him sigh. The whole point of going on a run was to clear his head, but all he got was more thoughts about Jack and he supposes that’s just what he should expect for trying to _not _think about his dream the night before.

Everything he avoided imagining throughout the day played behind his eyes at night. It was flashes of Jack and him holding hands—a favorite of his subconscious. And always, _always _the image of a happy, smiling Jack, but last night his mind took it even further. He could remember laying on a couch in the Haus and Jack’s arm wrapped heavy and warm around his waist while Beyoncé music videos played on a loop on the TV in the background. In that warm, comfortable place Jack talked to him, his deep voice next to his ear sending pleasant shivers skating down his spine. He can’t remember any of the things that were said, it was more about the cadence and tone of Jack’s voice. There was no stress or heavy decisions. It was just them. Eric loves how they fit together in his dreamscape and the curiosity drives him mad. He wants to know if it’d be that perfect in reality too.

It’s a silly thought. Jack is probably straight, he’s heard comments here and there from Ransom and Holster about girls he’s gone out with. It’s usually about how their matchmaking never works out which doesn’t surprise him. Rans and Holtzy are two of the nicest guys Eric has met at Samwell, but their enthusiasm sometimes leads to a kind of tunnel vision.

On top of all that, even if Jack isn’t straight, it’s not like he’s shown any interest.

Eric blushes where he’s still standing on the trail and quickly picks up jogging again like he might be able to run from the thoughts rushing through his head. God, he really needs to talk to someone about all of this. Keeping all of it to himself just isn’t like him. Once again, he’s struck with homesickness and he misses his mother’s voice. He feels ridiculous. It’s barely October. He spent the last month of summer at home wishing he was at Samwell and now that he is he wants to be home? Every part of him feels out of order and when he traces the cause it always leads right back to the dreams.

He scrounges what he can of his run and pushes any thoughts of Jack and _feelings _to the dark corners of his mind.

When he makes his way back to the Haus a half hour later, he’s doing much better. The endorphins feel amazing and the looseness of his muscles warmed and stretched from the exertion is relaxing. Eric loves a good run. It’s not quite the same thrill he gets when flying on the ice, but off-ice training is just as important. From the outside, the hockey house looks just as quiet as it did when he left and he confirms those suspicions when he enters and heads for the kitchen to get water. The only sound he can pick up is running water from upstairs—probably Jack showering, he thinks offhand. When he blushes reflexively a second later, he quickly shakes his head at himself and sets his mind to making a massive breakfast fit for a hockey team to keep from heading down the path of those particular thoughts.

Cooking isn’t quite as satisfying as baking to Eric, but all the same he likes the feeling that comes with creating a full table of food for people to share and enjoy. He pulls what he can find from the fridge and makes it work while simultaneously whipping up some tarts because really what is a meal if it doesn’t include something sweet?

He doesn’t notice when the sound of the shower cuts off—he’s too occupied with the impulse decision to make some quick rise rolls just because it feels like that’s what is missing from the menu in his head that already includes sausages, eggs, roasted veggies and fresh fruit. Vaguely Eric recognizes that he’s going a bit overboard, but he has more energy than he’s had in a week and he’s hungry from all the running.

The kitchen fills with all the different aromas as he cooks and any chill that might have lingered from the night is quickly chased out by the heat from the oven and stove. His hair is curling at the ends and against the back of his neck from his run and the humidity and he can’t wait to fill his plate, eat and then shower. His mouth waters when he places the sausages to cook in the frying pan and they touch the hot surface with a quiet sizzle.

Eric hums and turns away from the stove top briefly to grab his water again, but a dark shape hovering in the doorway catches his peripheral sight and he startles, pushing a hand against where his heart had jumped in his chest.

“_Oh My Lord_, Jack Zimmerman!” he exclaims, managing to keep his voice quiet, but the shrill quality is still present.

Jack chuckles and pushes off the doorframe, “sorry, Bittle. I didn’t mean to scare you. What are you making? It smells amazing.”

“Just some breakfast butter rolls, mixed berry tarts, sausage and eg—what?” he asks quickly.

His captain is looking at him with an odd expression that Eric hasn’t seen before.

“I don’t know how you can say that so casually. No one else here can make any of this,” Jack says, gesturing to the organized, carefully planned meal developing before them.

“That’s not very fair, I’m sure some of you can handle cooking a few eggs.”

When that gets a brief smile on Jack’s lips, Eric can help the way his lips stretch widely in return. He probably looks crazy. Smiling so much over something so small.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Make sure you never let Shitty anywhere an egg. He somehow burns and undercooks them at the same time.” Jack shakes his head good-naturedly and his eyes are warm and full of mirth.

Eric nods dutifully. “Noted.”

There’s a soft moment stretching between them that Eric can’t ignore. Maybe it’s the early morning part of it all or just the fact that they’re alone and the rest of the Haus is asleep in their beds. It’s so different from the early morning check clinics; those are always about the hockey and while Jack has definitely warmed up to him more, he’s responsible with his time. More responsible than Eric thinks he needs to be.

Another flashing image from his dream of Jack smiling pops into his mind and he almost sighs audibly. He’d love to see Jack that relaxed and carefree.

Looking over the other man’s damp hair and calm demeanor, Eric finds that this isn’t that far off really. In fact, if Eric didn’t already know better he might think…

There’s a muted click sound and a quick series of thumps on the stairs suddenly and because he’s already staring it’s obvious when Jack tenses, his shoulders draw up and his spine straightens as he leans a bit less against the counter. It’s not much and if Eric wasn’t so obsessed with learning everything he possibly can about how Jack reacts, he might not have noticed it at all. To anyone else it would look like he shifted his weight casually and turned his attention toward the new arrival approaching. Eric is pretty sure he knows better.

It’s Shitty who walks through the doorway, looking frazzled and Eric can hear him weakly mumbling about coffee to himself. He pauses in his tracks when he looks up to see him and Jack. Shitty’s eyes dart between the two of them and glint with curiosity, which in turn, makes Eric blush like he’s been caught doing something incriminating.

Shitty seems two seconds away from asking a question that will make Eric blush even more when the smell hits him. His eyes widen and he takes a deeper breath and it’s like him and Jack aren’t even in the room anymore. “Is that,” another slow inhale, “_holy shit_, Bits, are you making breakfast?”

Technically speaking, Eric hasn’t ever made breakfast for the Haus. There have been morning bakes for sure, but nothing ranging into the savory taste buds. Eric tends to keep breakfast light and sometimes he’ll just eat something on the way to class. He knows that the majority of the Haus still goes to the dining halls for their most of their meals.

“Yes?” Eric replies and bites his lip as he glances over the cluttered counters again and sees it with new eyes. Maybe he did go a little overboard.

“Like… for everyone?” Shitty asks, his eyes glued to the stove.

Jack’s eyes slide his direction and they share an amused look between them that feels like they have a joke that only they know about.

“Yes, Shitty, it’s for everyone. I couldn’t possibly eat this much food all on my own. Why don’t you get yourself some coffee while I finish this up?” Eric prompts because Shitty looks like he’s contemplating sticking his face directly into one of the pans.

The way Shitty nods, dazedly, like he’s in a trance even as he starts mumbling about coffee again is hilarious, but concerning. He finds the coffee machine alright though and Eric settles for keeping an eye on him from a distance.

“Should we be worried about him?”

“He was up all night studying. I tried to tell him to get some sleep, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s only the beginning of the year and he’s already going a little crazy since there’s so much to do before graduation,” Jack murmurs, lips twitching. “It’ll be okay, he’ll calm down once his classes give him more of a workload and something to focus on. It’s the big picture stuff that drives him mad.”

“Are you that way too?” Eric asks before he can think.

Jack tilts his head in a way that Eric knows means he’s picking out his words carefully. It’s only a couple seconds before he sees him shake his head, “no, or at least, I don’t do what Shitty does. Big stuff like graduation is daunting, but I usually run or practice when I’m stressed. It makes sleeping easier.”

Eric opens his mouth to say something else, but then Jack speaks quietly again, so quietly he almost misses it.

“I didn’t used to do that though.”

“Sleep?” Eric frowns, feeling like he’s missed something.

“Well, that too, I suppose,” Jack acknowledges and the smile he sends Eric is tighter. “No, I meant, I haven’t always run or practiced when I’m stressed out. Sometimes… sometimes I’ve needed extra help. Counselors and medications.” Jack waves his hand in front of him to encompass those two examples and seemingly a number of other things in the same vein.

It’s a sudden realization and it comes as a shock to know that Jack is confiding in him. The warm bubble expanding in his chest is impossible to pop.

“That’s a good thing though, right? To know when you need the extra help and then let yourself have it?”

Eric’s not ignorant, he’s heard a lot about Jack from the guys on the team and a quick Google search details just about every bit of his past in a gross publication of his private information. He knows about Jack’s dad and how Jack ended up at Samwell. The weight that must be pressing on his shoulders even now.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees softly. He’s staring and it makes Eric blush again.

Eric clears his throat and his eyes dart to Shitty who is hugging a steaming cup and inhaling the steam.

They’re on the same wavelength and Jack understands what he doesn’t say aloud. “Shitty knows all this,” he promises. “It’s not secret, but there are a lot of reasons why it’s not publicly available information. My recovery isn’t nearly as interesting as hearing about how I hit rock bottom.”

Jack sounds resigned and it pisses Eric off. Not Jack, but all the people who cared more about a family legacy than they did about a kid who loved to play hockey.

Eric shakes his head in disgust, “bunch of people who ain’t worth two cents if you ask me,” he grumbles, his accent thicker in his irritation. 

He’s not looking so he misses the way Jack’s eyes soften as he smiles small and fond.

There are more footsteps thudding on the stairs and he might as well have rung some kind of bell because within five minutes everyone in the Haus is cramming themselves into the kitchen and looking at Eric like he brought Christmas. He promises them all there’s plenty to go around and starts serving.

Ransom kisses his head in a big, overdramatic display and Holster seems unable to stop saying, “_bro_,” in a tone of such reverence that it makes Eric’s cheeks flush bright red every time he hears it.

It’s Jack who fills him a plate though and nudges him to sit down while he takes over getting the rest of the team food. “I might not be much of a cook, but I do know how to dish out some food, Bittle. You’ve done more than enough.”

His heart flutters helplessly and he spends the whole meal glancing towards Jack, jolts of adrenaline shooting through him when Jack looks back more than a few times.

And when Jack instructs the rest of the team to clean the kitchen while Eric enjoys one of his own desserts he knows he’s completely fucked. He knows there is absolutely no chance of “getting over” Jack Zimmerman.

_I’m in deep trouble_, he thinks faintly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Eric. You oblivious, talented boy.
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @FromTheAtlas or my tumblr is boythisloveissupernatural


	4. Don't Talk to Strangers (Unless It's A Professional)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric finally talks about his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wholeheartedly apologize for posting this chapter so late in the day-I've been anxiously waiting to hear back about a job I applied for and unfortunately, it wasn't good news. Plus, I just sneezed all over my laptop (picture me pouring disinfectant onto my keyboard) SO that's how my day is going. Anyway, I hope everyone's having a better Wednesday than me at least.

The campus counseling center is on the far east side of campus, nearly hidden behind a cluster of trees and Eric isn’t sure he loves what that might say about the department that is heavily responsible for managing the mental health of the student body. Nevertheless, it’s the easiest option to access and he doesn’t want to write it off without giving it a chance.

When he walks inside he notes the pale walls and off-red, but somehow not quite pink upholstered chairs sitting in a waiting room that looks just like any other.

He checks in with the receptionist, having made his appointment and gone through the initial paperwork online beforehand. Eric sits and waits, carefully looking but not looking at the few other people seated there too, but it’s only ten minutes before a woman walks out and calls his name.

“I’m Dr. Edwards,” she introduces with a pleasant smile, “you can address me by Anne if it makes you more comfortable.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Anne,” Eric replies politely.

Anne guides him to her office. “Do you prefer I call you Eric?”

“A lot of people call me Bits or Bitty or just Bittle,” he says. The warmth rushing to his cheeks is a dead giveaway of his nerves. He didn’t even answer her question.

Anne shuts her office door behind them and gestures towards a small couch for him to take a seat while she sits herself in a surprisingly plush looking chair. “Lots of people like your friends?” she asks, her tone carefully measured. She’s good. There’s no flicker in her expression that she might have an opinion or expectation one way or the other.

“Yeah, I’m on the hockey team and my teammates gave me the nickname, but for the purposes of this I think you should probably call me Eric.”

She smiles and this time it’s more natural and reassuring than when she’d just been greeting him. Eric can’t help but wonder how old she is. Any early aging lines are faint and even then, they only make an appearance around her eyes. Her hair is dark and shiny and she dresses well in muted, but complimentary clothing that fits her slim frame. He can’t imagine her being thirty yet, but he would never ask. “Whatever you prefer. You can always change your mind if something feels a bit strange,” she reassures.

He takes a moment to think before he answers because she sounds so genuine and calm that he doesn’t feel like a bother for taking an extra few seconds. “You can call me Bitty or Eric, both are good.” It feels safer to give the option between an informal and more formal address. He likes being called Bitty, but Eric might be more appropriate if him and Anne are going to be talking about anything more serious.

“Alright, Bitty,” she says, nodding. “I just want to go over a few of the basic questions that you answered on the online forms to make sure I’ve got all the correct information. Then, I’d like to talk about why you made this appointment and how you’d like to progress; essentially what you’re hoping to get from these appointments—does that sound okay?”

Eric feels some of his nerves settle. He appreciates her laying it all out like that. It makes it all seem a bit less daunting. He just hopes he doesn’t end up wasting a professionals time with something like this.

“Sounds great,” he says.

Anne reaches to a small side table and plucks a thin file up, opening it and skimming over the papers inside like she already knows the information placed before her. “This is your first time seeking any form of counseling or therapy through the school?” she asks as her gaze lifts.

Eric nods, “ah, yes. A friend of mine suggested I come. He sounded like he’d been through here before and I thought talking to someone that isn’t on the team might help.”

“Why did your friend suggest counseling?” Anne asks. She’s perfectly pleasant still, but the directness of the question throws Eric off balance a little. Even with the casualness of the whole thing, it doesn’t feel like any conversation Eric has ever had. The answer to her question, at least, is already in the paperwork he filled out.

“Um, I stopped sleeping so well for a few weeks and my teammates picked up on it. I was making mistakes at practice and I guess not acting quite like myself.”

“And how are you sleeping now?”

Eric swallows reflexively when it hits him that he’s talking with an expert and that Anne seems unlikely to miss any small thing he says. Hiding in this place doesn’t feel like much of possibility and he’s glad for it, but all the same it is an adjustment.

“Better. I—well I sort of tried to not sleep last week?” Eric sighs and leans back into the couch. He bounces his leg and starts talking in a rush. “That sounds more horrible than it was. I didn’t stop sleeping, I _wanted_ to stop having dreams so I figured that if I took naps I could get the rest I needed, but without the dreams.”

“I see,” Anne says carefully and she looks interested and thoughtful. “And how did that go?”

Eric huffs, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

It’s gratifying to see Anne’s lips twitch humorously.

He doesn’t need her prompting to explain further. “I slept less than I think I ever have and it did stop me having any dreams, but I also got too tired to keep it up. I’ve gone back to sleeping full nights, but…”

“The dreams came back?” Anne checks and his miserable expression is all she needs for confirmation.

She surprises him then and asks a series of questions about his general health and habits. She asks about his diet, if anything has changed in the past month. She asks about his youth, if there are any instances he can remember of anything like this happening before—he can’t. The list of questions are succinct, but thorough and he realizes quickly that not once does she write any of his answers down. In fact, Anne hasn’t reached for a pen the entire time they’ve been talking.

“Pardon me,” he interrupts, “but don’t doctors usually write this information down? How are you going to remember everything I’m telling you?”

Anne smiles and he gets the impression that she has had this exact conversation many times. “I have a more developed autobiographical memory than most. I can remember what you say, exactly as you say it, without having to write it down.”

“Everything I say?” he asks.

“Pretty much,” she nods.

“Wow. That must have been amazing in school,” he murmurs. Maybe that’s why she’s so young? He can imagine it being incredibly easy to test if you can recall a lecture word for word.

Anne laughs easily, “just like anything else, it has its drawbacks, but for this career path it can be quite handy. I find it helps the people I’m talking with feel a little less like they’re being analyzed when I don’t have to scribble notes down. Makes it feel like it’s just another conversation.”

Eric nods in agreement.

“Can you tell me what your dreams have been about? You don’t need to be specific if you don’t want to, whatever feels pertinent.”

His palms are hot where they’re wrapped over his knees and he nods again, but it’s a jerky movement. It’s just the building pressure of holding his private thoughts like a secret that makes it hard to let go. “I think I should tell you beforehand that… I’m gay,” Eric says, glancing up quickly. Anne looks just as friendly as she did before he said the words so he takes that as a good sign. He reminds himself that he picked Samwell for a number of reasons, one of the highest on the list being that the campus was known for its progressive, inclusive attitudes. The words spill out of him quickly after that.

“I’m not saying this because the reason I’m here is related to my sexuality,” he starts. “I came out to my teammates last year and they’ve been great so you don’t need to think this is me, I don’t know, not knowing who I am or anything like that.” Eric takes a deep breath. “I can’t stop dreaming about this guy—he’s a friend. He’s one of my teammates actually.”

“What happens in these dreams?” Anne asks.

“Not much, really,” Eric admits and he glances around the office for a moment. There’s a zen garden a few feet away on a small table and he stares at it as he talks. “Sometimes… it’s just flashes, I don’t always remember all of them. It’s us holding hands or laying together,” he murmurs. “Like we’ll be talking, I never remember what about, but it has more to do with the sound of his voice, I think.”

The follow-up question isn’t a surprise. “How do the dreams make you feel?”

Eric feels like laughing, but there’s a tightness in his chest that makes it difficult to even speak. “Happy,” he whispers.

“You don’t sound very happy to me.”

That finally loosens him up enough to crack a self-deprecating smile.

Anne nods and leans forward, elbows rest against her knees. “Why did you try to stop dreaming, Eric?”

It feels silly and dramatic, but just the question has his eyes watering. He’s never had to say these things aloud before. In his head, he can tell himself how ridiculous his thoughts are, but allowing them into world gives them weight. They have a gravity to them that Eric can’t ignore. “Because as much as I love those dreams, I can’t handle seeing him every day and not being with him.”

She lets him sit with that thought for a moment and he’s grateful. His heart aches in a familiar, exhausting way.

“I’m going to give you some homework, Eric, before our next appointment. I’d like you to write down any dreams you remember. It will work best if you can write them down immediately after waking. You don’t have to bring me what you write, you don’t even need to hold onto it yourself. You could throw it away after you’re done writing if you want.”

“What will writing them down do?” he asks.

Anne hums in consideration. “It’s different depending on the person, but it should mimic what you’re feeling right now,” she says, eyeing the relaxed way that Eric has sunk back into the couch. “It’s just another outlet for your feelings and thoughts. Putting them down on a piece of paper can help us let go or even just give us a chance to process.”

“What are you hoping to get out of these appointments, Eric? Where do you want to go?” she asks.

“Oh. Um.” Eric frowns down at his hands. “I guess, I just want to figure out how I can manage these feelings? I’ve had crushes before, but this is nothing like that. I feel crazy for being here,” he admits.

“You’re not crazy, Bitty,” Anne reassures. “Anything that is impacting your ability to sleep and go about your daily life is worth focusing on and managing. I’m glad your friend recommended you make an appointment. He sounds like a thoughtful individual.”

Eric isn’t sure how much he should share, but he figures giving a little bit more isn’t going to make much difference. He twists his fingers together, “he’s the one that I have feelings for.”

“His friendship means a lot to you.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles lamely. “You know, it’s actually kind of funny. He used to hate me? I think it was just that we worked well together, but we’re so different and he has people in his life that expect so much from him. Anyway,” he shakes his head to clear it, “one day he just decided to start helping me outside of practices and things changed. Not that I think he likes me back…” Eric blushes crimson and covers his eyes briefly. “Sorry,” he says reflexively.

Anne’s voice is gentle when she says, “you don’t need to apologize, Bitty. We can certainly work on processing what you’re feeling and I’d like you to start by writing down your dreams.”

Eric nods in agreement, “that sounds easy enough.”

“Let’s schedule an appointment for next week, okay?”

With the weight lifted from him and shared with Anne everything feels more approachable. He’s feeling rejuvenated and optimistic. He can work through these feelings for Jack and no one has to know but Anne. He can get himself back on track. He can be friends with Jack and maybe, if he tries hard enough, it won’t hurt the way it does now.

The first step outside the counseling center is a slap in the face. It’s _cold_, dammit. Eric shivers and tugs at the sleeves of his jacket as he hurries to the nearest bus stop. He’s so distracted, running through what he’d told Anne while finding his bus pass that he doesn’t notice the other Samwell hockey team sweatshirt already seated a few rows back until it plops down into the spot beside him.

“Bits, didn’t you see me waving?”

“Oh, Shitty,” Eric startles. “No, I didn’t, sorry. What are you doing on this side of campus?”

“Fuckin’ study group again. They always wanna meet by that little café because it upcharges for what it calls culture, which is just leaf art in their coffee—tastes like shit by the way. I mean, I’m all about some art with my food, but if the flavors aren’t there then there’s really no point. They could takes some notes from you, Bits. Your food is fucking amazing.”

Eric admires Shitty for a lot of things, but his casual compliments are top of the list. He makes them sound like a fact of the universe.

“Thanks.” His smile is fond as he turns his body more towards the older man.

“You know, I saw Jack looking at a cooking class for next semester and there’s no way it doesn’t have something to do with your food. I know the professor, I bet I can get in a good word for you,” Shitty says easily, nodding like it’s a totally normal thing for him to say.

Eric can’t help it, his mouth drops open in shock. “W-why would he—w-what are you talking about?”

“Bits, please.”

His heart stops and sinks like a rock.

“Someone has to keep that man afloat in a class where _taste _is required. I love ‘em, but his talents are on the rink and I don’t think it’s legal to make him partner up with some innocent student that doesn’t know any better. He needs someone with advanced skills to keep him on track and that’s you.”

Shitty is just thinking about Jack’s welfare, Eric realizes in an embarrassed rush. He gets his mouth to shut, teeth clicking with the force of it. His whole face feels hot and his gaze falls to where there’s gum stuck to the bus floor. Anne’s comfortable office and all that support seems far away. It has to be some kind of joke. The same day that he asks for professional help managing his feelings for Jack and Shitty has to go and shove them together? What kind of fucked up irony is that?

“Right,” Eric says awkwardly and he tries for a laugh, but Shitty is giving him a weird enough look about it that he doesn’t think it comes out quite right. “I guess that would be me.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want. I just know that Jack would be happy to have your help and I honestly thought you’d love the class; Professor Atley is badass.”

“N-no it’s not that. Of course I’d help him. After all he’s done for—for the team,” Eric says. “Plus, an upper level cooking class sounds almost too good to be true. I’d have to wait a whole year to get in on my own. Thank you, Shitty. That’s really thoughtful.”

Shitty’s eyes are glinting when he says, “you know I’m always looking out for you, Bits.” He should have expected the sideways hug because the man is definitely a hugger, but he’s all kinds of out of sorts. Once again, it’s like everything is happening so quickly that he almost can’t keep up. He smiles against Shitty’s shoulder though and this time when he laughs, it’s genuine because his teammate’s energy is infectious and he wants to focus on the nice act his friend is going to do for him. Even if it might bring Eric some amount of misery. After all, it’s not like that is anything new.

At least he knows the first thing he’s going to tell Anne when he sees her next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to say a huge thank you to everyone who has commented, bookmarked, left kudos on this fic! I decided to pick this fic back up after so long because I definitely need something to focus on that isn't my mess of life and all of your messages make my day just that much brighter! 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @FromTheAtlas   
or   
my tumblr is boythisloveissupernatural


	5. Undone, But Working on the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stress baking and spilling more secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going up a little late because pretty much everything this week is behind schedule for me. Plus, as I was writing this section it suddenly needed to be 1k longer (because of course it did). Anyway, I'm excited for what I have planned for this in the future! I hope all is well with everyone.

Halloween sneaks up on him.

The Haus transforms practically overnight largely due to Holster and Ransom’s enthusiasm, although Eric has it on good authority that they wrangled the frogs into doing most of it.

There are pumpkins _everywhere_. Scattered around the porch, balanced on windowsills, there are even a few on the stairs leading up to the second floor. A carving event has been loosely scheduled for the upcoming weekend and all anyone is talking about are costumes and how pumped they are for the big party taking place on Sunday.

Eric is shocked to find out that Shitty isn’t the one leading the charge for the big bash. Lardo apparently called some kind of dibs on all things Halloween related and is taking things to… new levels. He found one of the kitchen cabinets full of carefully organized and labeled bags of fake blood and he’s determined not to find out what they’re for.

They have a game that Friday night so practices have been long and grueling. He hasn’t seen much of Jack outside of rink time and even that is limited since his game has been so inconsistent, although he’s been working hard to get himself out of the slump he’d fallen into. Coach Murray and Coach Hall are doing their best to be understanding, but the good of the team comes first. It hurts though. He feels like he’s one more screw up from being kicked off the team, but he’s not about to voice those concerns when everyone has bigger things they’re worrying about. Sometimes he wonders if the team really would be better without him. Jack’s kind words a handful of weeks ago about him fitting in were all he ever wanted to hear someone say, but he can’t help thinking maybe Jack was just being nice. Maybe they’re all just being nice?

None of his thoughts are very comforting so he throws himself into his studies and off ice training. He runs until his legs shake and pours over his notes until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. His dreams continue with minor variations and when Eric wakes, he reaches for the small journal he’d picked up from the campus bookstore and writes down everything he can remember. It takes a few days for him to notice a change and when he does he’s not sure if it’s better or worse. The dreams actually become easier to remember. Where once there was vague recollection and blurred edges, now, the dreams stand out sharp in his mind; vivid and more like memory than fantasy. He’s incredibly glad he went to Anne. At least now he has an outlet for all of his Jack related thoughts. It’s not perfect, but it is better than trying to bottle all of it up.

He’s thought about talking to one of the guys on the team about it, but every time he tries to imagine doing exactly that, something goes horribly wrong in his imagination. If he talks to Shitty, maybe he’ll feel too awkward since him and Jack are best friends? What if he feels like he has to tell Jack? The same could be said for Lardo. Ransom and Holster would probably just try to help him get over Jack and he shudders to think what that might entail, no matter how well-intentioned they are. Talking to any of the frogs just seems like a horrible idea from every angle so Eric has stopped trying to think of how to even attempt it.

That leaves him with Anne. Which is fine. Great, even. She’s a professional. She’s a safe confidant. She will keep his secret.

But she doesn’t know Jack. And a tiny part of him, shoved down deep, is still somehow hoping that if he admits how he feels to his friends, they might tell him he has a shot. Or at the very least, tell him he’s not totally crazy for falling for their captain. Because Jack is a catch and the whole team can see that in some way. The frogs are still star struck by him on a daily basis. Everyone on the team knows how talented and kind he is. It’d just be nice to tell someone who would nod knowingly and pat his back and say _yeah, I get it_. 

Lord, he’s overthinking.

Eric shakes his head and sighs heavily, stirring faster. He stares down at the bowl of batter cradled in his left arm, but he barely sees it. He’s on his fifth baking project of the night and he hasn’t paused his workflow for the last couple hours. After practice, he’d showered and made it back to Haus where the rest of the team dispersed to their own activities. He’d gone to the kitchen and hasn’t left yet.

He’s running out of clear surfaces. There are cookies, pies and even a loaf of bread cooling across the various counters. The stack of dishes is piling up in the sink and he’s on his last clean spoon.

“Hey, Bits,” a voice says from somewhere to his right.

Eric blinks in a daze and lifts his head to look to the noise, but his arm doesn’t stop stirring and it takes him a few seconds for his eyes to focus in on Shitty. He frowns when he realizes that Shitty isn’t alone. Lardo, Dex, Chowder, Holster and Ransom are all hovering behind him tentatively, matching looks of concern on their faces.

“Yes?” Does his voice usually sound so far away?

Shitty takes a step forward and his hands are out, palms facing up, “maybe it’s time you call it quits. You don’t look so good.”

Eric’s frown deepens in confusion. He doesn’t look good? Well, he is probably covered in flour and batter. But still, he was in the middle of something…

“Just put the mixing bowl down, Bits. I don’t think the kitchen can take much more.” Another careful step forward.

What is Shitty talking about?

It seems like only a second later that Shitty is right in front of him, but that can’t be right. He blinks again and lets the bowl go when a pair of hands reach out and gently, but firmly pull it from his grasp. His arms sag to his sides and he stumbles forward a step, “_ow_,” he mumbles in surprise. How long has he been stirring? His arms feel kind of numb, but they’re… throbbing?

“C’mon, Bitty, you need to sit down.”

A different set of hands guides him out of the kitchen and the sudden lack of florescent light makes him blink some more. Someone helps him to the couch and somehow his apron is already gone.

“He’s gone all catatonic.”

“This can’t be normal, right?”

“I’ve never seen him bake like that—he looked like he was sleep-baking, bro.”

“Should we slap him? That’s a thing they do, right?”

“Yeah, in _TV shows_.”

“I’m gonna get Jack.”

That gets through more clearly than all the rest of their chatter and he latches onto the brief clarity desperately. He blinks again and his vision finally focuses on the bodies hovering around his spot on the sofa.

“I’m okay,” he says.

Six sets of eyes snap to him like a rubber band being released. They don’t seem convinced.

He’s going to need to try harder. “No, really. I’m alright. I just got caught up baking.” The darkness outside the windows catches his attention. “What time is it?”

“It’s a little past ten,” Lardo says, but she’s sharing a look with Shitty that he’s not sure he appreciates.

“Oh, wow. I need to head to bed. Can one of you make sure that batter ends up in the fridge? I’ll handle it tomorrow. Oh, the cookies,” he says in realization. He has a batch in the oven.

“Don’t worry about it, Bits. We’ll take care of it,” Shitty reassures, but he’s still frowning.

Fuck, Eric thinks. He really must have freaked them out.

“Sorry,” he says impulsively, hoping to ease over their worry, but his apology only seems to make things worse. Even Ransom and Holster are looking at him with turned down mouths and furrowed brows. Chowder looks like he might cry, he’s so concerned.

Everything feels so heavy all of a sudden and his shoulders slump. He’s spent weeks now feeling like a failure and this feels like another fuck up. Eric drops his gaze to his hands and starts scraping bits of dough out from under his nails. A long shower is definitely in his future just to get all the flour off of him.

Some sort of silent communication happens above him and when he glances up again, it’s just him and Shitty. He really hopes no one is actually going to get Jack. It’s late. Eric knows he’s already asleep.

Shitty lowers to a knee in front of his seat on the couch and leans in, voice low and concerned. “Bits, are you okay?”

He presses his lips together and nods, his eyes landing back on his hands.

“You know you don’t need to apologize, right?” Shitty asks in a soft tone. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

There are so many thoughts floating around his head, so many worries. He opens his mouth to say one thing, but the words that follow are not what he’d intended, “I’m gonna get kicked off the team.”

The dead silence that follows is one of the worst things Eric has ever heard. His heart pounds and the rushing sound in his ears makes his palms sweat. It’s not exactly what he’d meant to share, but that shouldn’t surprise him. It’s a fear that has been weighing on him heavier than he admits even to himself. Saying it out loud isn’t like telling Anne about his feelings for Jack; that instant relief. This is a horrible, sinking in his gut. God, he’s pretty sure he really is going to get kicked off the team.

“Bits, why—”

“What’s going on?”

Eric squeezes his eyes shut and slumps forward, curling in on himself. Maybe if he just hides, then this whole situation will pass without him having to participate?

“What happened? Is he alright?” Jack demands and the air stirs when he moves so quickly to where Eric has folded up to put his head almost between his knees.

“He thinks he’s going to get kicked off the team,” Shitty says, frustrated and Eric groans sickly. How is this happening to him?

“_What?_”

Oh no. Jack sounds angry.

“Bits,” Shitty tries again, but he doesn’t get that far before Jack is interrupting.

“Why would he get kicked off the team?”

Shitty sighs heavily. “Bits, help me out here before Jack busts a blood vessel or something.”

The idea of mumbling into his knees is even more humiliating somehow so he steels himself before raising up. He’s still hunched over, but he leans his arms on the tops of this thighs and lifts his head to look at Shitty. He can’t look at Jack.

“Coach Hall and Coach Murray, they… if I don’t get better, I’m off the team,” he says. He digs the nails of his right hand into his left palm and bites his lip. It doesn’t help and his eyes fill with tears anyway.

“They talked to you?” Shitty asks.

Eric nods.

“This is why they haven’t been starting you,” Jack realizes.

He nods at that too.

“I thought that was just because of the concussion still?”

Eric swallows, his throat feeling like sandpaper. “I started having trouble with the hits again after the concussion,” he says. “I was getting a little better, but they’re worried about how inconsistent I’ve been. They made it clear that it might be the best thing for the team if—if I wasn’t on the roster.” He can’t manage anything above a whisper by the end of it, but the room is so quiet there’s no way they didn’t hear him.

“Well, fuck,” Shitty says lowly and when he peaks up, gaze watery, Shitty is looking to Jack. Eric still can’t bring himself to look there.

“I’m not a freshman anymore,” he mumbles, quoting his coaches and hating the words, “I’m not pulling my weight. It makes sense.” The words are hollow. He feels pretty hollow too.

“Bittle,” Jack’s voice is quiet, but firm, “you _belong _on this team. If Hall and Murray want to try and cut you, then they’re going to have to cut me too.”

He gasps. He can’t help it. It’s such a stupid thought. He lifts his gaze to glare into the blue eyes he knows far too well. “You will do no such thing. This is _your _team, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t look sorry at all and what’s worse is he’s not taking it back. He’s not admitting that he can’t do it because he has his career to think of.

Shitty huffs out a chuckle and leans forward to grip Eric’s shoulder. “You’re right, Bits, he’d be a massive, bone-headed idiot to do something like that, but he makes a point. Hall and Murray would do anything to keep him so if he says the word, you keep your spot. However,” he says, throwing Jack another exasperated glance, “our heroic captain probably doesn’t realize that even if he did that, it wouldn’t make you feel any better, would it?”

Thank God for Shitty, Eric thinks weakly.

“It wouldn’t?” Jack looks so adorably puzzled and his heart clenches.

“It wouldn’t,” he confirms. “Jack, I don’t want to be on the team just because of your say-so or because you feel bad for me. I want to be there because I deserve it. Because I’ve earned it. I haven’t been playing well. Everyone knows that. Especially you.” He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand and tries to pull himself back together.

When he looks up again, he can see Jack fighting with himself, but eventually he does nod. “You’ve been off, but we can get you back on track. And you have been doing better this week,” he says, ever the determined captain. Jack’s solution to everything is usually to practice more. If only his problems were that easy to solve. “Did you take my advice? About the counseling?”

Eric blushes a soft, peachy color and glances at Shitty who pats his shoulder in a comforting way and smiles encouragingly. He nods at Jack, “yeah, I—yeah. It’s helping, I think.”

Some of the tension leaks out of Jacks broad shoulders. “Good. What else do you need? You’re not getting kicked off the team, none of us are going to let that happen, alright? We have to look out for each other.”

He’s not used to this comradery outside of the rink. But Jack looks the same way he does in practice and during games, when he’s dead set on getting a play perfect and working however hard it takes to see the results he wants. And it’s not that he doesn’t need anything, but he knows he can’t get it from Jack. Maybe it is time to share his secret though. It might be the only way to get back on his game. Eric looks from Jack to Shitty and he doesn’t know how to ask in a way that isn’t awkward.

“Can I… talk to Shitty? Alone?” he wonders, hands twisting nervously.

Jack tries to hide his surprise, but Eric has gotten so good at reading his expressions and the disappointment he finds there is painful.

He’s a gentleman though and says, “of course,” without pause. Jack pats Shitty’s back and heads for the kitchen.

“Bits?”

“Can we go to my room? I don’t want them to overhear,” he murmurs. Eric stopped hearing much noise coming from the kitchen a while back so he assumes they’d all heard at least some of what had transpired. He’s not upset by it, it’s just become a fact of life living in the Haus.

“Course,” Shitty says, helping him up.

It’s late and Eric’s exhausted, but he climbs the steps and heads for his room, slumping down onto the mattress on his side while Shitty closes the door and takes a seat in his desk chair. He can’t even care all that much about the flour and bits of dough that are probably getting all over his comforter.

Shitty folds his arms over his chest, his expression expectant.

“I have a crush on Jack,” he says and none of his words are rushed. His heart beat stays even, his cheeks don’t flush with heat.

“I know.”

Eric’s not surprised. He groans and rolls on the bed, stuffing his face into the pillow so he can let out a frustrated sound.

“Does everyone know?” he mumbles, barely nudging the cushion out of the way to let the words get out clearly.

“Not everyone, but it’s not hard to spot if you know what you’re looking for. Jack doesn’t know,” Shitty says.

Well, that’s something.

“You told a counselor about this?” Shitty asks and he only sounds curious, not teasing.

Eric bats the corner of the pillow out of his way. “Yeah, it’s… why I was having trouble sleeping. And why I haven’t been playing well. I keep having these dreams about him and not telling anyone about any of it and it’s driving me crazy and keeping me up and I can’t fucking _focus _around him, let alone on the rink and I—”

“Whoa, Bits,” Shitty hurries to interrupt. “Is this the only thing that’s been messing you up?”

He doesn’t know what Shitty is implying. Eric frowns, “I mean, I’ve been kind of homesick, but the thing with the southern food that Jack did really helped, but other than that…”

“Help me understand because I’m a little lost. Why is this causing you so much stress? I know having a crush can be overwhelming, but shouldn’t it be mostly exciting? I imagine it will get better after you ask him out,” Shitty says.

His eyes widen and he watches as it clicks for the other man.

“You’re not going to ask him out.”

“Of course not.”

Shitty’s mouth opens and closes as he frowns and tries to figure out what’s going on. “Why not?”

“So many reasons, Shitty. So many reasons.”

“Lay ‘em on me, Bits.”

Eric rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “For one thing, he doesn’t like me like that. He barely likes me at all.” He expects Shitty to nod sagely and agree with him.

“You don’t know that for sure. Jack isn’t the best at expressing what he’s really feeling, I’ll give you that, but he’s not a blank slate. I would’ve thought even you would be able to notice how much he takes care of you. How much time he spends with you. Almost everybody else has.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Eric argues. “Jack does tons of things for the guys on the team. I don’t even know why we’re talking about this—he’s straight, Shitty. There’s no point and it’s not really much of a consolation that I have his friendship or whatever because he probably just sees me as a guy on the team. A guy that can barely stay on the team,” he mutters, bitterly.

Shitty’s eyebrows are almost to his hairline. “Whoa. Okay, there are so many things to unpack there, I don’t even know where to begin.” He hums and reaches up to tap his fingers over his lips in thought. “Firstly, you need to recognize that you’re an amazing person, Bits. Everyone on the team loves you—and I do mean everyone. You are valued and appreciated. We love how unique you are on the ice, don’t scoff, I’m serious here. You are one of the fastest players on the rink at every game we’ve ever had. You’re graceful in a way that none of us can even come close to. You have a problem area, but no one is perfect and you’re working hard to get better. Secondly,” he continues, holding up two fingers, “Jack is your friend. He likes spending time with you and he makes the time for it and for a guy that has that much going on his life, that’s saying a lot. Thirdly, I’m going to go ahead and assume that you don’t know if he’s straight or not because you’ve never asked. I know this is probably going to be your next argument, but I _promise _you that if you ask him out or even just ask him if he’s straight, he will not hate you. He will not stop being your friend. Jack Zimmerman is many complicated things, but a jerk is not one of them. If you’re crushing on him this hard, then you’ve got to know that I’m right about this. Jack is just a _good guy_. And he’s worth putting yourself out there for. I know that because he’s one of my best friends.”

Eric’s face is on fire by the time Shitty finishes his speech. It sucks because he knows on some level that he’s right, but the reality of facing Jack and sticking himself out there when all he’s ever done in his life up until a year ago is lie by omission about who he is… it’s tough. It’s new. It’s terrifying.

“I feel like a wreck for turning this into such a big thing. Making everyone worry and stuff,” Eric admits after a second into the quiet.

Shitty shrugs easily, “sometimes crushes can feel like the end of the world. They’re not, but I know how you feel. Just try and remind yourself that it’ll be okay and the days will keep coming regardless of what happens. And trust me when I tell you that you’re not losing any of your friends or any of your teammates over this. You have a home here, Bits.”

“Thank you. Can I… can I talk to you more often? I’ve wanted to in the past, but…”

“But you didn’t want to be an imposition?” The knowing frown makes him duck his head guiltily. Shitty nods, “You talk to me any time you want. That’s what friends are for.”

Eric feels raw and worn out, but better. “Thanks, Shitty.”

His teammate rises from the chair and heads for the door.

“Shitty,” he calls out, just when he touches the doorknob.

“Yeah?”

“Do you happen to know if Jack is—”

“Nice try, Bits. It’s not my place to tell.”

Eric sighs, but nods. He knows that if Jack is anything other than straight that it isn’t public knowledge. He really will have to ask directly if he wants an answer, apparently.

“He’s a good guy,” Shitty repeats, giving him a long look. “Get some fucking rest, alright?”

“Yeah, goodnight,” he says around a massive yawn.

Eric doesn’t have the energy left to overthink anymore. He drags himself up and picks out a change of clothes before showering and getting ready for bed. The only room left in his head is filled with simple steps: comb his hair, brush his teeth, set his alarm. Each step is an effort and he curls under his comforter, pulling the blanket up to cover his head completely. In that dark space he closes his eyes and breathes deeply. For the first night in a very long time, he doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter hoping to get more Halloween stuff in there, but it got all sidetracked with so much chatting and vital communication. No worries, I'm determined for that to be in the next chapter. 
> 
> Also, I just glanced at the calendar and Christmas Day is the next posting day for this (wow, my timing is amazing) but I will be out of town for a few days so it's kind of a toss up if I'll be able to post the chapter. 
> 
> I'll post updates about my progress on the chapter and when it will be going up on my twitter which is: @FromTheAtlas


	6. A Real Dream Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric tries to get some simple information and ends up with a lot more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised Halloween this chapter, but this really got away from me and it's having to be split into two parts because it's a lot. These boys, I swear, they're just trying to throw me as many curveballs as they can.

Eric takes a half day just to process. He still has to go to class, of course, but it’s an easy day since no one can focus with Halloween looming on the weekend. It gives him plenty of time to sink into his thoughts. The romantic in him wants to daydream about asking Jack out and the way they would fit together and how amazing it would be to feel Jack’s hand wrapped around his own or his arm around his shoulders, but he reels all of those impulses in. Talking with Shitty triggered a lot of hopeful fantasies and he has to remind himself that he still doesn’t actually _know _Jack’s preferences.

So, then the problem becomes… how to figure that out. How does he even casually ask that? His conversations with Jack have never veered into that territory and he has no idea how to steer them in that direction now. In a fit of frustration, he searches the web for advice that only makes him blush and realize that everything with Jack is overshadowed by hockey. Every friendly pat on the back or playful hair tousling can be tracked back to the rink. To when their blood had been pumping heavily, hearts racing in accomplishment.

Eric’s idle thoughts connect like a key sliding into a tricky lock. Of course, he thinks faintly. _Hockey_.

“Jack!”

He has to jog to catch up to Jack’s long strides and call his name once more to actually get his attention. He’s on the wrong side of campus, but he didn’t want to wait and give himself time to chicken out.

“Bittle,” Jack says, giving him a quick, but thorough look over. That makes sense to Eric, the last time they saw each other he was absolutely covered in flour and batter. “Are you okay?”

Eric’s cheeks give him away as always, flaring up brightly. “Yeah, I am. I’m sorry about last night, I didn’t mean for them to go wake you up like that. I-I know how important your sleep is,” he rambles.

Jack frowns and the dark expression isn’t exactly what Eric was expecting. “Did you need something, Bittle?”

This isn’t like Jack. The dismissiveness. He feels like there’s way more than a couple feet between them.

It isn’t easy in the face of this weird side of Jack that he hasn’t seen before, but he shoulders onwards because he’s nothing if not determined. The most he can do is try, he reminds himself. “Yeah. The game is tomorrow and I thought maybe we could squeeze in a check clinic sometime beforehand? I just… I know you’re really busy, but I could use the help. I just want to be as ready as I can be.”

He must have done something right because Jack’s face softens and he nods in understanding after a moment, regripping the strap on his backpack. “Tonight after practice?”

Eric nods and tries not to lose all control of his heart, but it’s a close call. Lord, he likes this boy. “Thanks, Jack.” He sounds breathless even to his own ears. No wonder Shitty could tell.

They stand there looking at each other for a moment and it stretches long enough that Jack frowns and glances around them. “Isn’t your next class in the Miller building?” he wonders.

“Right, yeah it is. I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, Jack. Thanks again.” It’s rushed and awkward, but Eric really does have to move if he’s not going to be late. There isn’t time to stand around being tongue-tied in front of Jack Zimmerman.

It isn’t until he skids around a corner, rushing to beat the clock that he realizes that Jack knows his class schedule. 

Eric is more nervous than normal before leaving for Faber that evening.

It’s an earlier practice because the coaches want them to have plenty of time to rest up properly the night before the game, but all Eric can think about is what comes after.

He stretches off ice and gets his gear on as the rest of the team trickles into the locker room. It’s more subdued, but maybe that’s just Eric and how disconnected he feels from it all. A few of the guys glance his way and Chowder looks like he wants to approach him, but he doesn’t and Eric is thankful. He doesn’t really want to get into it.

Shitty pats his shoulder and gives him a nod and Eric smiles wanly back. He’s quick then, to get on the ice. He’s the first out, actually, which is kind of a shock. Jack is almost always the first on and last off.

He starts doing easy laps and lets the rest of the world melt away. Before he knows what he’s doing the easy laps turn into sprints and the sides of the rink blur until their just streaks of red and white as he races by. This, at least, he knows he’s good at and it’s comforting to sink into. His muscles work in unison and his breath comes faster, a light sheen of sweat building up along the back of his neck. He vaguely notices the rest of the team joining him and silently following his example, though none of them can quite keep with the pace he’s set for himself.

Coach Hall and Murray join them a few minutes later and they seem impressed with the look of them all. They call everyone to a stop and praise Jack for getting everyone into the warm ups with such gusto. The whole team seems to share a series of glances between each other, but the weight of their gazes when they come to stop on him is notable. Eric isn’t surprised to be overlooked by the coaches, he just wishes the team wasn’t so aware of it.

Jack looks like he’s trying hard not to glare at their coaches when he folds his arms across his chest and gestures in Eric’s direction, “I was only following Bittle’s example. He was the one that came out of the locker room and immediately went into sprints. Thank him.” It doesn’t sound like much of a suggestion.

Coach Hall appraises him with fresh eyes and nods in approval. “Good hustle, Bittle. That’s the kind of attitude we need going into the game.”

It’s a little thing and it wouldn’t have happened without Jack pushing the attention in his direction, but it feels so nice to be recognized rather than reprimanded. He turns red when a few of the guys nearby slap him on the back. When he looks up Jack catches his eye and nods at him, support and acknowledgement in one. Jack is on his side. He’s reminded of what Shitty said to him the night before and the proof that his trust in Jack won’t be misplaced is right in front of him.

He takes a deep breath and nods back.

Practice is amazing. It’s the best they’ve been all month. The coaches pair him up with Jack again seemingly out of the blue, but Eric isn’t stupid and he’s pretty sure Jack said something. Or demanded something. Either way it’s a heady thing to feel that wanted and that carries over to their scrimmage.

He barely flinches the few times he gets checked, but it doesn’t come up often because he’s _fast_, dammit. He’s usually quick, but for those couple hours he feels entirely weightless and no matter what his teammates do, he finds himself a couple strides ahead. It’s almost like he’s waiting for the rest of them to catch up to where he’s already placed himself. He’s missed this feeling.

Jack is amazing too and it feels _right _for them to be working together again. Every pass seems to connect and the lightness in Eric’s heart is something he hasn’t felt for weeks. Their coaches are thrilled and already they’re talking about how they can apply these routes and plays to future matches. It feels like the team is welcoming Eric back. It’s sweet and when they celebrate another successful run— the last before the end of their practice time, Eric turns red under so much praise.

The whole team is laughing and bragging about their skills as they head for the showers. They’re more than ready for tomorrow’s game. Eric stays behind and makes circles over the scratched ice, smiling to himself.

“Doesn’t seem like you need a check clinic to me,” a deep voice calls out, a second pair of skates moving on the ice.

Eric’s smile stretches into a full grin and he doesn’t bother trying to reign it in when he looks up. “I got lucky tonight, I didn’t take too many hits, but I could still use some help. I know some of the guys go easy on me,” he says, shrugging.

Jack is grinning too. “You know they don’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eric says, his voice going soft and fond because he loves his team. He’s so content that he does a spin and it inadvertently brings him within a couple feet of Jack. He laughs and catches himself out of the twirl, but he’s unbalanced and nearly falls.

Jack’s hand shoots out and grips under his elbow. “You’re not in the best skates for spins like that,” he says and it’s like a lightning bolt shooting down Eric’s spine when he realizes his captain is _teasing _him.

“The way I feel warrants spins,” Eric quips, giggling when he breaks away from Jack and goes into another twist.

When Jack catches him again, it’s with two hands instead of one and it brings them even closer together. “I know you’re better at that than the rest of us, but we’re going need you tomorrow so you should be careful,” Jack insists.

Eric relents and he’s so lightheaded with the rush from an incredible practice that it takes him an extra second to realize how close they are.

“I’ve missed it being like that,” Eric says softly.

Jack lets him go because he’s stable and doesn’t look like he’s about to go into anymore spins. He nods, “me too. It… it makes me think about last year a lot.”

“Last year?”

“I shouldn’t have shied away from how well we work together. I was too caught up in how I thought things should be,” Jack explains. “You’re so different. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Bittle.”

“You’re pretty different too,” Eric throws back, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I know. Not many people have a dad like mine or a his—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Jack tilts his head and his soft confusion is so cute. “Then what?”

Eric inhales deeply and glances around at the rink, the stretch of ice and the emptiness around them. “I like hockey because of the team. I wouldn’t be doing this if my teammates weren’t part of the deal,” he says quietly. His eyes land back on Jack like they always do. “You like hockey because of the game, Jack. Something about the ice… it changes you. Or just brings it out, I guess. I’ve never seen you look more alive than you are when it’s you, the puck and you’ve got a goal in your eyes. I know the guys make jokes about your hockey mode, but it’s true. And they only make jokes because it’s not quite like that for the rest of us. You _belong _on the ice and that’s not because of your dad. That’s all you,” he says earnestly.

The way Jack is looking at him isn’t something Eric is familiar with. It’s close to how he looks when he’s trying to map out a difficult new play, but there’s gentleness in his eyes. “Like I said,” Jack murmurs, “never met anyone quite like you.” He shakes his head seemingly in disbelief and the way he’s staring makes Eric’s cheeks flare with a bright heat that radiates out. “Thank you, Bittle.”

Eric ducks his head. The impulse to shrug is there, but he fights it. This moment feels special in a way that he hasn’t fully comprehended yet and shrugging it off would only cheapen it.

“Do you really want to practice checking?” Jack asks after a quiet moment and the teasing tone is back and it makes Eric reel to have such playfulness between them.

“Have a better idea?”

Jack’s answering grin makes his stomach flip over.

“Of all the things, this is what you pick?” Eric can’t help asking, laughing despite himself. He lunges out and tries to get the puck back as per the game Jack created which is some kind of blend of tag and capture the flag.

“Beats taking a check, doesn’t it?” Jack fires back, skating backwards.

Eric races forward, set on using his speed to get what he wants. He can’t answer because he’s out of breath and determined to beat his captain, but he thinks Jack knows.

When Jack escapes his clutches at the last minute he redoubles his efforts. “Get back here!”

They spend the next half hour like that, chasing each other and taking the puck back and forth. Eric feels like a kid again, back when his time on the ice was measured more by expending energy and having fun than it was about practice and drills. He hears Jack laugh more than he ever has before. He has to stop when it becomes a struggle to put one skate in front of the other.

“Alright, I’m calling it,” Eric pants, bending in half and skimming his fingertips over the ice to catch the puck and keep them from continuing. “I think you win.”

“I don’t even remember the score,” Jack chuckles, hair painted to his forehead with sweat. “I haven’t done anything like that since I was kid,” he admits.

Eric is pretty sure Jack was born to smile like that and the sight of it makes something in his chest clench and ache.

“Me either.”

They’re skating into each other’s space again. It’s not purposeful, they just kind of end up there and Eric has done a good job of not being overly conscious of the way they’ve been bumping into each other for the past couple of hours, but it’s harder to ignore now. It helps a little that Jack doesn’t seem to notice at all by how closely they’re standing. He’s too busy staring, Eric realizes, turning hot under his gaze.

That’s all it takes. Just that one little awareness.

Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. His heart starts to pound in his ears and he has to tilt his head back a little because Jack’s so much taller and _lord _he really is close and getting closer. His eyes drop to Jack’s mouth before he can help it and in a panic he looks up to see if he’s been caught, but Jack’s not looking at his eyes. One of Jack’s skates bumps into his and Jack leans down just as Eric’s breath catches in his throat.

The lights in the whole rink go out.

Both of them freeze for a moment, stunned. Then, Eric reaches out instinctively for Jack’s arm, gripping it in the abrupt darkness and it should be shocking when Jack reaches for him in return, but without the light it’s not as scary.

“Jack,” he whispers, not sure what they’re doing anymore.

“Bitty,” Jack murmurs.

Eric shivers and it has nothing at all to do with the chill rising off the ice. He blinks through the blackness surrounding them until he can make out the shape of Jack, his broad shoulders made bigger by the pads, the cut of his jaw and soft bow of his lips.

The press of those lips against his in the dark makes him gasp. His blood rises up and such a gentle touch feels like it’s searing a mark into him. It takes a second for Eric to adjust so he can clench his hand around Jack’s arm and hold him there and lean up into it, eager for more. His mouth parts an inch and they find their way even closer, lips moving in a clumsy dance.

Jack’s free hand grips his hip and Eric is enveloped in this tall, beautiful man who _wants him back_.

It’s romantic as heck, but not very convenient that his first kiss is happening in a pitch dark rink with both of them in their gear. There’s so much between them still and the ice isn’t helping his weak knees keep him upright. Jack is a rock though and when Eric wobbles, they break apart enough and Jack chuckles against his cheek, low and warm. “Alright?” Jack checks, not pulling back an inch.

“You sure know how to surprise a boy, Jack Zimmerman,” he says breathlessly. He can’t believe they just did that.

He isn’t sure, but he thinks Jack is grinning. “We should get off the ice.”

Eric nods at that and they have to untangle themselves which starts up a whole new round of blushing on his part because it makes it all more real. Jack doesn’t let go of his hand.

Their eyes have adjusted more and it’s easier to pick out details now. The night sky outside is clouded, but occasionally the moon manages to shine through the large Faber windows on the far side of the rink, casting the ice in a soft glow. It could be another one of his dreams, Eric thinks. He turns to look at Jack as they approach the barrier and he takes careful stock of the clamminess where the heat of their hands are intertwined, the stiffness of his clothes and across his skin as he cools quickly. His dreams never provided him with such precise details. This is reality.

Jack helps him off the ice and they make it back to the locker room, the next logical step, but the small, darkened confines of it do something weird. There’s a tension in the air and Eric’s thoughts spiral into panic. _What happens next?_

Jack clears his throat, “I’ll get the lights.”

“Right.”

The warmth wrapped around his hand squeezes tighter for a brief moment before Jack pulls away and finds the nearest switch panel. He turns on one of the softer lights that illuminates the office off to the left, not the harsh fluorescents between the rows of lockers like Eric expected.

“It’s kind of eerie being in here with the lights off,” Eric says, flashing a nervous smile. The locker room feels weighted. This is a room where they would normally be stripping down and heading for the showers, but things have changed between them. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s seen some of Jack, of course, it’s inevitable, but he’s also been incredibly careful to never look very closely which is the same for all the guys. And Jack has seen him too, he realizes with a new redness creeping up his neck. So do they just carry on as they normally would? He’s only just been kissed a few minutes ago, he’s not prepared for this.

The whirling, shifting vacuum of his thoughts must be easily read on his face because Jack doesn’t say anything. His mouth tilts up at the corners in a reassuring smile and he makes his way over to his locker just like it’s any other day. The familiar rustle of clothing and gear hitting the bench as Jack starts to undress snaps him out of his panic and puts him in motion.

Eric exhales with relief and nods to himself, turning to his own locker and putting Jack out of his sights. He realizes he’s still holding the puck in his other hand. It brings a smile to his face and without more careful thought he moves to tuck it carefully away in his bag. Eric goes through the movements that are habit at this point, tugging at his jersey and shedding off pads. The message Jack had given him was clear; nothing was expected of him. He can hear Shitty’s voice in his head saying _he’s a good guy_ and he nods again. Even in all of these new moments, he feels safe with Jack and he lets that knowledge calm him.

The shower starts up in the distance and Eric was so distracted he hadn’t even noticed Jack moving away. He heads for the showers himself a moment later and it’s a blessing, he decides that the showers in Faber are essentially formed in a U shape, but also divided into two sections with a standing wall slicing down the middle to provide additional showerheads on each side of the wall. There’s still a gap in the walls, allowing players to walk into either entrance and switch sides if one is more crowded than the other, but it does allow a modicum of privacy when it’s just him and Jack.

He keeps his back to the other side just in case and focuses on the simple task of cleaning himself. A shower is desperately needed and the hot water and resulting steam makes his shoulders slump. Under the spray, he tips his head back and rubs his hands over his face, scrubbing at the sweat. It’s impossible to ignore the aches when the water seems to map them out, flaring hotter against his more strained muscles. When he turns around to make sure his back gets wet and blinks through his soaked hair, he remembers why he’d stayed facing the wall. Across the gap he can see the edges of Jack around the corner, shrouded in his own cloud of heated water. It’s not much, the pale flash of his elbow and the side of his shoulder, the dark hair made almost black under the stream but it still makes something hot twist in his stomach.

He pivots, head swimming and his body torn. Before, it had been easy enough to not get wrapped up in Jack because he never actually thought he could have him, but now he’s kissed him and he knows exactly how soft that mouth is. He might not be ready for more right that second, but it’s easy to imagine a time in the near future when he would want that. If Jack did too. Any interest his body had taken in the tempting view of Jack is quickly stomped out by anxiety. Are they dating? Tonight kind of felt like a date. Will they be doing that again soon? Or is Jack not interested in more than a quick kiss? Eric brushes that thought aside quickly because it sounds more like his own fear talking and if it does happen to be true, well, he doesn’t want to dwell on it.

The sound of the other shower being turned off interrupts his panic.

It’s an effort, but he pushes aside his worries and reaches for his body wash. He’s quick, but also aware that he wants to give Jack enough time to get dressed before he joins him again. When he finally shuts the water off, he strains his ears, but all he can hear is the drip of water on tile and his own steps when he grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist.

He emerges from the shower, flushed with the warmth of it and Jack is thankfully dressed and bent over his bag, packing up. Jack glances up when he walks in and it’s just a split second, a dart of his eyes down to Eric’s chest, but it’s enough to know that he’s wanted. That at the very least, Jack has noticed him.

Jack clears his throat and zips up his bag, “I’ll meet you out front, alright?”

Eric had thought he couldn’t be surprised anymore that night, but that was before he’d seen Jack with pink cheeks, trying his best to look anywhere that wasn’t directly at him.

Eric nods in a daze. “Yeah, I’m right behind you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhh happy holidays and Happy New Year! I am overwhelmed by so much right now and I'm sorry to leave you right there, but this chapter really is too big for me to get it all finished today. I'll see you this time next week for Part II! Hope all is well with everyone! 
> 
> https://boythisloveissupernatural.tumblr.com
> 
> or my twitter is @FromTheAtlas if you want updates about how the next chapter is going
> 
> If there are glaring errors in this chapter it's because I haven't had nearly as much time as I'd like to proofread. I'll get around to it before long and come back to fix anything I notice.
> 
> -UPDATE-  
I hate having to do this, but I have to postpone the next update by a week. I just need more time to work on the second part and make sure it's the best it can be. Thanks for understanding!


	7. A Real Dream Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got smacked with some serious writers block and extending the deadline for this chapter really helped so thanks for being so patient with me! 
> 
> I'm adding a tiny warning for this chapter which will be added to the tags and if you'd like to know more, I'm putting additional details in a notes at the end.

Jack is waiting right where he said he’d be, leaning against the wall near the doors with his bag slung over his left shoulder, the weight not even a thought. His shoes squeak on the floor, the sound drawing Jack’s attention and the smile that greets him makes Eric’s heart stutter.

They don’t say anything, but Jack tilts his head in invitation and then holds the door for Eric and they fall into easy steps together in the darkness, arms brushing occasionally. Neither of them are hurrying.

Eric is grateful for the shower because it cleared his head, but even better, it gave him time to come down from the rush of being kissed. He’s tired and happily sore from practice and while he knows he should probably be counting down the seconds towards _another _kiss, he can’t help but think longingly of his bed.

The quiet lasts until they round the corner of the street the Haus is on.

“Will you be at the party on Sunday?” Jack asks, glancing over.

Eric shrugs even though up until two seconds ago the answer to that question was undoubtedly yes. “I don’t have a costume.”

“Neither do I.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he says before blushing when Jack laughs.

“You don’t think I’d wear a Halloween costume?”

Eric relaxes when it’s clear that Jack isn’t actually offended. “Sorry, you just don’t seem like it’s something you’d be into, I guess. You’re so serious all the time.”

Jack hums in consideration and looks forward again. “I suppose you’re probably right, costumes aren’t exactly my thing, but what if we went anyway?”

“Wh- to the party?” he asks, flustered.

“Yeah, it should be alright, don’t you think?”

“Sure, ah, yeah. I mean, yes!” he stammers. “I guess as long as Lardo doesn’t actually kill us and use our bodies for decoration it’ll be a success.”

Jack chuckles and this might be the most Eric has heard him laugh ever. And it’s because of _him_.

They walk up the steps to the Haus porch and the door is held open for him again.

Thankfully, the rest of the team is accustomed to him and Jack putting in extra ice time so their late arrival isn’t exactly a rare occurrence. He’s relieved to not have any prying questions or glances sent their way. They climb the stairs together and their doors are right across from each other. Eric swallows and turns to look at Jack and finds him staring right back.

Jack steps forward, his body a series of lines leading to one intention that makes Eric’s stomach swoop.

A door slams shut downstairs and it makes Eric jump. They’re both flustered and Jack’s cheeks are pink again.

“Get some sleep, Bittle,” Jack says, smiling as he takes a step back.

“Right. Night, Jack.”

By some kind of magic he doesn’t fumble with the door handle and as soon as he’s inside, he sags back against the door to catch his breath. Good Lord, he’s flustered and all they were doing was smiling at each other. He has to cycle through a handful of careful breaths before he can ease himself off the wall and move to his bed. He drops his bag on the mattress and stares at it for a moment. In the next second he’s scrambling to open it and rummaging inside, pulling back with a soft cry of victory when he finds the puck. His thumb rubs over the smooth, black disc and he grins at it.

Just before he settles down to sleep that night, he slips the puck under his pillow and pushes aside how ridiculous he feels for doing it. He wants to keep some part of this amazing night close to him. It helps to know that when he sleeps, he might get to see Jack again and for the first time the thought fills him only with excitement.

The next morning, the whole world seems to shine. Eric wakes after a full night of rest with a lightness in his chest and he hums as he makes his bed (something he’s never done outside of setting up his room for his vlogs). He eats an apple on the way to his first class and arrives early so he gets the best seat. His notes are in perfect order and all day he finishes his work ahead of schedule. He can’t wait for the game that night and more than that, he can’t wait to see Jack.

Any free moment throughout the day is spent imaging holding his hand again, remembering how warm Jack’s palm had felt wrapped over his own. He _tries _not to think about the kiss too much because that feels like a train of thought that won’t contribute to his productive day, but more than once he catches himself running his finger over his own lips and he can only smile to himself and hope that if anyone notices they don’t think he’s completely insane.

He wonders if Jack is doing something similar across campus and the thought makes his skin buzz.

When his last class finishes for the day he can’t wait to get back to the Haus. The game isn’t until seven so he has an entire afternoon to himself which he hopes he can turn into an afternoon shared with Jack. He has to wait because Jack’s last class is a little later than his own so he uses the time to bake pies for the upcoming party.

The kitchen is a bit worse for wear by the time Jack’s class gets out, but Eric is pleased with the results of his efforts so he settles into cleaning up with familiar ease and a spring in his step. His teammates start filtering back into the Haus and some chat with him while he works while others blow off some steam before their game.

Game days are always a little tense in the Haus and everyone has their own rituals to keep them focused, but without fail the rooms always fill with a sense of anticipation. The expectancy in the air mixes with his own eagerness to see Jack and a few people comment on his restlessness, but he waves off their concern.

Another half hour passes and Jack still doesn’t show. Eric bites his lip and reorganizes his baking supplies, fluttering around the kitchen. He shakes his head at himself after another ten minutes of useless rearranging and calmly makes his way up to his room. He feels silly for putting expectations on his afternoon and on Jack when they definitely didn’t make plans to spend time together. It’s not like anything between them is definite. Jack is a busy guy and game days in particular always put him in a specific mindset.

Eric preps his gear for the game and cleans his room and when that doesn’t fill enough time he goes downstairs to join his teammates. Ransom and Holster are two of the best distractions he can imagine. They’ve started up some kind of tournament involving three types of card games and two console games. Eric isn’t really one for video games, but he lets the guys lean over his shoulder and instruct him and he laughs even when he loses and is soon eliminated.

Shitty and Lardo arrive not long after and by then it’s obvious that only one person is still missing, but if anyone else is worried they keep it to themselves and Eric doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up. He’s a textbook worrier though and he twists his hands until his skin is faintly red. He’s usually nervous before a game, but this time he can’t tear his thoughts away from Jack and wondering if he’s okay or if maybe something happened.

When the team makes it to the locker room Eric has his eyes cast down, watching his own feet while he bites the inside of his cheek and sinks onto the bench in front of his locker. He’d spent the whole walk to Faber weighing the pros and cons of texting Jack.

“Hey, Jack! Where’ve you been all afternoon? You missed the tourney,” Ransom exclaims and Eric whips his head around so fast his neck pops.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Had to meet with…” Whatever Jack is saying doesn’t even register, he’s too busy running his eyes over him and looking for any signs of distress. Any reason to explain why he’d been gone when he usually makes a point to bond with the team. He seems calm enough, but there’s something around his eyes that tips Eric off. “…and then my dad called. He’s, uh, he’s here,” Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck while the team pauses before breaking into excited chatter.

“Dude, he didn’t give you any warning?” Holster asks.

Jack shakes his head and briefly, so briefly that even Eric almost misses it, their eyes meet. That’s all it takes for Eric to understand and he nods to himself. Of course Jack’s father showing up out of the blue would take precedent and he can only imagine that this impromptu visit is just as much to talk to Jack about his prospects as it is to watch him play.

Eric remembers the last time Bob Zimmerman came to one of their games and he really hopes Jack doesn’t shut down like that again. He takes a deep breath and has to mentally remap his approach to tonight’s game because the stakes are higher for Jack now and Eric only wants to help.

Eric isn’t a starter which is both a blessing and a curse. He likes the advantage of seeing the field of play and getting a good idea of how the game is going to be played, but when the game is brutal he hates being able to see it coming. It’s not reassuring to step on the ice knowing a handful of guys with boulders for shoulders are gunning for him.

He thinks of the practice the night before to center himself and tries to get some of that magic back. It takes a couple minutes to get into the rhythm of it, but the first time his pass connects to Jack everything slips into place once more.

He doesn’t think of it as avoiding a check, he just focuses on making it to the next empty space, imagines where he wants to be and digs his skates into the ice. It helps that Jack is somehow playing even better than he was the night before.

Their opponents are more physical, but that’s all they’ve got in their back pocket and Eric is quick enough to outskate them, plain and simple. The final buzzer sounds to cement their victory and Eric throws his hands in the air at the same time as his teammates and he never sees number nineteen, a power forward who’d been trying his best to check him all night, until it’s too late.

Eric takes the hit to his left side and back and he’s almost mid ice so at least he doesn’t hit the boards, but his helmet smacks the ice when he’s pushed forward and down. There’s so much force behind the impact that he hears his visor crack as his jaw connects and blood fills his mouth instantaneously. It’s not like when he got a concussion and he thinks he might prefer the dazed confusion to this sudden pain. There’s a moment of stillness where he’s lying on the ice and then all hell breaks loose.

His Samwell teammates converge on number nineteen and there’s a mass of players colliding into a full out brawl and the referees try, but there’s one notable tall, dark-haired captain with a death grip on nineteen’s jersey. Eric doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jack so angry. Shitty looks like he’s out for blood too, Eric notes with a weird detachment.

Everyone is so wrapped up in the fight that Eric stays still with blood dripping inside his broken helmet for long enough that he thinks no one is going to help him. Or maybe everything is just happening in slow motion.

At least three pairs of hands land on him seemingly at the same time and Eric can hear Coach Murray and Coach Hall talking to him and he struggles to hear over all the yelling going on. The crowd is so loud and he can tell that the fight is still on-going. He manages to shake and nod his head, but he can’t even open his mouth without more blood spilling out and he’s probably going to be sick.

They roll him to his back and tell him to stay still, but he can’t. He reaches up for his helmet which is so gross by this point and the red in his vision isn’t helping him stay calm. Dear Lord, he probably lost a tooth. One of them helps him get it off when he makes it clear that he’s not going to remain still.

The cool air off the ice hits his skin and he twists to the side, puts his gloved hands on the ice and leans over, opens his mouth and gags when a mix of saliva and even more blood splatters on the ice. It’s so gross.

Coach Hall and Murray haul him up a second later and his head kind of lulls forward and he can barely get his skates under him. Sticky crimson is still leaking from between his lips and down over his chin and he isn’t looking forward to seeing the state of his jersey when all is said and done. Thankfully, he hadn’t seen any teeth and when he moves his tongue to one side to feel for any gaps and jolts in sudden pain it becomes clear that he bit his tongue. There are tears streaming down his cheeks that he doesn’t have any control over and things move in and out of his awareness after that.

He’s taken to the hospital. He gets fifteen stitches on his tongue and his jaw swells and turns a gross purple, blue, black mix, but apparently he didn’t fracture anything. Coach Hall calls his mom which is good, but also horrible because he can’t talk to her. He’s allowed to video call though and he does his best to convey how okay he is with hand gestures, blinks, and the few aborted sounds he can form at the back of his throat. Both his parents are concerned and they spend a long time talking to Coach Hall and Eric catches a lot of words like accountability and suspension and he feels confident that number nineteen won’t be stepping on a rink for a while.

It’s nearing midnight when he’s dropped back at the Haus, prescription pain killers, antibiotics, instructions on how to take care of his stitches stuffed in his pocket. The hospital gave him a cold compress to take with him for his jaw and he cradles it to his face as Coach Hall shadows him up the porch steps and opens the door for him. He is a little loopy from the stuff they gave him at the hospital so it makes sense that he’s not trusted to make it twenty feet on his own.

Eric isn’t ready for the reception waiting for him when he walks inside.

He blinks in surprise as Coach Hall leads the way to the living room where the whole team seems to be packed together. The whole room falls silent and turns to him and he almost sways on his feet from the oddness of it all. His friends kind of look like statues. Somber ones at that. No one is smiling and Eric has to admit that he probably looks horrible. His mom had cried when she saw the state of his jaw so… yeah. Probably not his best look.

Coach clears his throat and gives them the breakdown. “Listen up, because Eric is going to need all your help for a while, okay? When he hit the ice he bit his tongue and he had to have stitches so he won’t be able to speak for about a week, maybe more. Now, he’s got medications and Eric’s already let me know he’d appreciate some help remembering to take them and getting food that he can manage. Eric has notes about all of that from the hospital. He won’t be in class for a few days and I know you all want to make sure he’s okay, but he needs rest, alright? No getting overbearing, right guys?”

Some people nod and some murmur their agreement and Coach nods. He turns to Eric then and makes a point to make sure that he doesn’t need anything else and Eric is quick to give a thumbs up which makes the older man smile.

Coach Hall heads out and the room is only quiet for a moment before a bunch of people start talking over themselves at once. It’s a lot and Eric blinks again in surprise, taking a reflexive step back.

“Hey! Guys, he just fucking said don’t get overbearing. Shut the fuck up,” Shitty yells over the noise.

“Are you okay, Bitty?” Chowder asks and he looks so worried.

Eric sweeps his eyes over the lot of them and his brain is moving a bit slow because he hadn’t been able to spot Jack until this very moment. He’s at the back of the room, arms crossed over his chest and Eric’s eyes widen when he sees the black eye he’s sporting.

He points at it because there aren’t as many filters for decisions to pass through and Jack has a _black eye _that he certainly didn’t have the last time he saw him.

Jack opens his mouth, but it’s Holster who answers.

“Yeah, Jack went ape shit on that asshole who hit you. The other guy’s face was a mess by the time the refs finally ripped them apart,” he explains.

“Fuck that piece of fucking trash,” Shitty grinds out. “That guy’s a fucking coward is what he is. Goes after you right after the buzzer. I watched him _decide _to motherfucking hit you,” he growls. “He should be expelled if you ask me.”

“Murray sounded like he was going to try and make that happen. And he looked like he was about to kill someone, I’ve never seen him that pissed,” Ransom says.

Eric can already tell he’s going to seriously miss being able to talk. He tries to catch their attention, but only Jack is watching him.

Jack raises his voice and the rooms goes quiet again. Eric blushes and gestures with his hand like he’s writing on the air. It’s Lardo that catches on immediately and gets him a pad of paper and a pen. He sways a little and suddenly Jack is at his side, guiding him to a seat. Eric smiles at him gratefully because Jack is amazing and knows exactly what he needs. It takes him a second to get back on track.

His writing isn’t as neat as it normally is and really, he should probably go to bed soon. He has to adjust how he holds the ice pack to his jaw and in doing so the room gets a good glimpse of the damage.

“Jesus, Bits,” Shitty mumbles.

“That’s gotta fucking hurt like a bitch,” Holster says.

It’s a wake-up call when the toughest guys on the team are wincing at his face.

_It doesn’t hurt right now_, he scrawls, showing Jack who’s kneeling on the floor next to his chair.

Jack nods and conveys the message to the room.

_What happened? _He gestures to Jack’s eye to make it clear what he’s talking about.

“A ref caught my arms long enough for him to get a hit in. Fight didn’t go on much longer after that. What’s in your mouth?” Jack asks, frowning and leaning in a little as if to get a better look at the tiny bit of white fabric poking out from Eric’s mouth.

_Gauze_—_was still bleeding a little when they let me go_, Jack nods but his mouth is a thin line.

“How do you feel?”

Eric tilts his head before he writes, _tired and kind of loopy, these pain killers are no joke_.

Jack nods again and he looks tense. “C’mon, you should go to sleep. Where are these notes from the hospital? We’ll give them to Lardo and she can makes a schedule with the team so someone’s always keeping an eye on you,” he says.

_Y’all don’t need to do that._

It’s Shitty that snorts and Eric realizes that some of the guys have crept closer to read his words when Jack stopped translating. “Bitty, if you think we’re letting you out of our sights you’re crazy. Get ready to be taken care of like the wounded baby bird that you are.”

To Eric’s amazement, the whole team nods in agreement.

He exhales out of his nose with more attitude than he feels, but he fumbles with the bottles and papers in his pockets before holding them out. Jack takes them and carefully hands it all over to Lardo who immediately starts reading the details.

Jack helps him to his feet with his large, warm hands and everyone says goodnight to him and wishes him rest. It’s overwhelming and he’s a little bit glad to have his head so muddled that it all happens like a dream. The stairs are a bit tricky, but with Jack by his side he feels safe and well looked after.

The trip to the hospital had been rushed and the only clothes he had on under his gear was long, under armor pants and a tank top. It had been fine in the emergency room, but now that he’s back at the Haus and getting closer to sleep it’s clear how gross he still is. They’d cleaned him up some, but he’d had a whole game’s worth of sweat built up, an uncomfortably itchy layer coating his skin. He pauses in the hallway and holds up a finger to Jack’s confused expression. It takes a second for him to flip the notepad to a new page and write out the word shower and underline it for emphasis.

“Right. Let’s get you clothes and then you can shower,” Jack says, leading him again.

Eric isn’t so far gone that he can’t pick out his own clothes and he only stumbles a few times as he tries to walk around his room, but all the same Jack looks concerned and he sets a firm hand on his elbow as he helps him to the bathroom.

“I’m going to be right outside the door, okay? Please don’t fall in there.” He sounds like he’s pleading and Eric nods dutifully and reaches up to pat Jack’s cheek in reassurance. He’ll be fine. Probably.

The shower is great and Eric does focus enough to turn carefully and keep track of where his feet are placed on the slick floor. He moves slowly and can’t really do much about how long it takes him to get dressed, but Jack is still there waiting patiently when he opens the door.

It seems so natural to have Jack trailing after him as he clambers into bed and tugs his comforter up around him. He watches as Jack sits down at his desk chair and rolls a bit closer. Eric reaches out to him and the twining of their hands and fingers also seems like another natural moment sliding into his life like it was always meant to be there.

Jack reaches out with his other hand and gives him back his cold pack, making sure it’s in the right position to stay up against his jaw even while he sleeps.

“Go to sleep, Bittle,” he says softly.

Eric squeezes the big hand laced with his own and keeps his eyes on Jack until he just can’t hold his eyes open a moment more.

His dreams are filled with soft caresses and murmured affections.

After that, his life falls into a strange pattern. True to her nature and skillset, Lardo develops a perfect timetable for him and every minute is accounted for. He is never alone other than when he’s asleep and even then, someone is usually camped out bedside just to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t choke in his sleep or something.

The team is insanely protective.

He barely lifts a finger and they all make sure he follows his doctors instructions. He gurgles with salt water as a precaution and takes his antibiotics with soft foods that are manageable enough to get down. They keep him up to date with his coursework even though it’s the weekend and he sleeps a lot. It’s lovely and frustrating, but mostly lovely.

Especially because Jack takes over the majority of the shifts available to keep him company. Not being able to talk is a nuisance, but he’s pleased by how well Jack can read his body language. They get pretty good at flirting without a single word being exchanged and it makes Eric impatient to be recovered so he can express all the thoughts filling his head.

He finds out that there were many videos recorded from the game and he watches a playback of himself hitting the ice once before shuddering and deciding never again. It’s just a lot of blood. He does, however, watch multiple videos of the fight between the two teams that happened after he got hit. Jack looks murderous in every single one and something about that makes him overly warm. The violence of it all is a bit much for him, but he’s never seen Jack look so furious about anything. It’s intense to know that he caused that.

Number nineteen, Cason Hunt, as he later learns, is benched for three games and undergoing investigation for his behavior not just in the match against Samwell, but a few incidents earlier in the season as well. He’s told that the university is taking unparalleled action to get to the bottom of the pattern of behavior and he can’t help wondering if Jack or, more accurately, Jack’s father, played any role in that. He’ll just be happy to never share ice with that guy ever again.

He talks to Jack about Bad Bob. Or well, he writes on his notepad and Jack talks. His dad hadn’t been happy about the fight, but he’d understood some. Mr. Zimmerman had seen Eric go down just as well as anyone else that had been at the rink. It was a dirty hit and a mockery of sportsmanship. At least, that’s what Shitty keeps going on about and Eric is inclined to agree.

The Halloween party happens and Eric manages to be downstairs for a half hour before it all becomes a bit much. There are streamers and bright, glowing lights set to pulse, carved pumpkins on every available surface and way too much dry ice. He dodges fake spider webs and weaves between hot, costumed bodies. Shitty crows when he sees him and everyone is excited and a little drunk. It’s overwhelming and rather than fight the throbbing pain in his head and mouth he admits defeat. He climbs back into bed to nap and his eyes are just slivers when Jack finds him and takes up his post sitting in his desk chair. Jack watches him blink heavily and smiles at him with a fond expression that makes him stretch against his sheets in a satisfied way.

“Told you it was too soon to be partying,” Jack murmurs, looking far too smug for Eric’s liking.

He frowns and then frowns harder when Jack grins. He hadn’t wanted to miss the party because it was supposed to be their first sort of date, but after a couple laps without spotting the captain he’d reluctantly retreated.

Jack can read the slight pout to his lips. “There will be other parties, don’t worry.”

Eric rolls his eyes because he knows that, but it doesn’t change the fact that—

“I know this one was supposed to be special, but I’ll make it up to you when you’re feeling better,” Jack promises.

Eric grins and curls up a bit more against his pillow because boy, oh boy, does he like this ridiculous hockey nerd.

The familiar, bumping tune of Monster Mash becomes more prominent when his door suddenly opens, a quick knock sounding barely a second before, and Shitty steps in with a very handsome and blond guy at his back.

“Uh, Jack?” Shitty starts, but there isn’t a need for introductions.

That’s Kent Parson standing in Eric’s doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some descriptions of injury and blood. Eric gets hit during the game and bites his tongue hard enough upon impact to need stitches.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> @FromTheAtlas is my twitter account if you'd like updates about how the current chapter is coming along!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than my norm, but it is significantly fluffier so there is that...

Eric sits up, his comforter slipping from around his shoulders to pool at his waist and has a moment of absolute awe. Kent Parson is in his room. He thumbs at his phone instinctively, his first thought to ask for a picture, but then he sees why Shitty looks so tense and the prospect of selfies leaves his head completely.

He’s gotten good at reading Jack. It was never especially challenging, but most people only see what they want of him and are subsequently very bad at it. Eric sees more. And the way he’s staring at Kent makes his stomach drop. _Oh_, he thinks.

“Zimms, you look like shit,” Kent greets, lips twisting in a lazy smile.

Jack has to blink a couple times before the situation seems to settle in for him. “Kent? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see how things were going. I saw video of your game. Well,” he pauses to smile, “I saw the fight.” Kent turns his gaze on Eric all of a sudden and while his expression isn’t hostile, something in in causes Eric to shift, pulling his knees up against his chest.

“Kent—”

“You took a nasty hit,” Kent continues, still locked on Eric, surveying his bruised jaw with sharp eyes that don’t miss a thing.

Eric nods slowly, wide-eyed and confused. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on and he doesn’t love that even Shitty looks like all of this is making some amount of sense.

“I looked up some videos from other games too. You’re fast and you handle well.”

A frown creases his forehead and Eric chances a glance at Jack because _what is actually happening? _There’s no way Kent Parson showed up in his bedroom just to compliment him.

“Kent, he can’t talk,” Jack explains. “He bit his tongue after the hit.”

“Stitches?” he asks, still directing his words at Eric.

Eric nods and he feels dazed.

Kent whistles lowly, “that’s rough, man.”

“Parse, what are you—”

Just as quickly as Kent had focused his attention on Eric, he turns that lazy smile and piercing gaze on Jack instead. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk, we have a lot of catching up to do.”

It probably shouldn’t hurt so badly, but Eric’s chest tightens uncomfortably when Jack gets up and leaves with Kent and doesn’t look at him once.

Only Shitty is left behind and without any prompting he fills the seat Jack had taken and tells him about Kent. Not the full story, even Shitty doesn’t know much, but it’s enough for Eric to fill in the gaps. His initial feeling of dread hadn’t been completely unfounded, it seems. And pairing that with how Parson had stared him down a few minutes ago, Eric feels like an idiot. Clearly there is more to Jack’s past than Eric had thought and it wouldn’t normally be a problem except that Kent hadn’t acted like it was in the past.

Eric thanks Shitty and urges him back to the party. He wants to be alone. And what’s worse is that he can’t actually _talk _about any of it. He drags his pad of paper closer and writes instead. It’s not quite the same, his thoughts are so busy that he almost can’t get it all out before his brain jumps to the next thought. It seems futile to even try and he gives up when he starts writing more questions than answers.

His room feels especially lonesome with the sound of the party drifting up from below and he huffs as he curls up with the lights off. Maybe Jack won’t even come back. Maybe he’s downstairs with Kent Parson, enjoying the party. Maybe he’s forgetting all about Eric and one little kiss.

_Maybe, _he thinks with a sigh, _I’m being a little dramatic._

After another twenty minutes of moping later and he’s contemplating just going to bed, but swiftly gives up on the idea. He doesn’t feel all that tired anymore and clearly sitting with his thoughts isn’t doing him an favors. Eric wanders downstairs again, sticking close to the outskirts of the rowdier partiers. Ransom and Holster catch sight of him and attempt to bring him into some kind of drinking game and he knows they’re trying to be nice, but it’s not exactly the distraction he’s looking for and it’s not like he can have alcohol with the state his tongue is in.

He picks his way through the crowd, dodging vampires, superheroes and witches. The music is loud and he’s glad for his small size in such a dark space until a very drunk someone knocks into him accidentally and tells him his make-up job is rad. His jaw looks less horrendous since the swelling receded, but the bruising is still brutal. He tries to smile at the compliment, but there’s not much point and he fights his way to the back porch where hopefully there will be less people and not so much noise.

Somehow it’s worse.

It’s quieter, but there is more movement and activity. Lardo turned the backyard into a sort of Halloween carnival with a bunch of different outdoor games. Any other day and Eric would probably be having a great time, but all he really wants is quiet. The party is too much. With the backyard looking so unappealing he turns and walks along the outside of the Haus, rounding the corner and blushing when he has to walk past more than one couple getting frisky in the shadows. He makes it to the front yard and doesn’t look back as he walks down the street, his feet carrying him to campus before he can think about where he wants to go.

The campus is dark and the majority of buildings are locked up tight so Eric spends some time just walking and letting his feet choose his path. His jaw and tongue ache and twinge in equal measures so he figures he’ll circle back after a while and take some of his painkillers then fall asleep regardless of how much noise the party will still be causing. He’ll need food though if he wants to take those pills and he frowns at the idea of maneuvering through a cluttered, messy kitchen. He scuffs his shoe against the concrete and stuffs his hands deep in his pockets.

It’s a ridiculous impulse, but he wishes he could get into Faber. He’s not allowed on the ice until he’s healed up, but there’s something about an empty rink that’s so calming to him. It’s as he’s wandering towards Faber that his phone vibrates and he only needs one guess to figure out who it is.

Jack: _Where are you?_

Eric: _Outside Faber_

His phone doesn’t buzz after that and he sits down on a bench nearby before sighing and moving to lay down instead. His feet dangle off the end a little and he wiggles his toes as he looks at the sky. There aren’t many stars to see with so many street lights on, but as his eyes adjust he can pick out a few more dots. It’s cold, but he doesn’t shiver and with the way his jaw is beginning to flame up it almost feels nice. _The chill of the ice in Faber would be even better_, he thinks.

“Bittle?”

Jack’s voice isn’t far and the sounds of his steps get steadily louder until they stop right next to the bench.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks, leaning over and obscuring his view of the night sky.

He shrugs and glances to the side so he doesn’t have to look at Jack.

“Why are you out here?”

Eric tugs out his phone with a huff and taps quickly before shoving the device up. Jack’s warm fingers brush his as he steadies it and reads quietly.

_Tell me about Kent Parson and I’ll tell you why I’m out here._

Jack exhales and takes a step back, but before Eric can worry that he’s about to walk away, he moves Eric’s legs and sits himself on the bench, placing them over his lap delicately.

He can see the stars again so he focuses on that while he listens to Jack speak.

“There are a lot of things I could say about Kent, but I have a pretty good guess of what you want to know,” Jack starts and he sounds so tired that Eric almost sits up to look at him. “Kent and I… I guess you could say we used to be together.”

It’s what Eric expected to hear and is essentially what Shitty hinted at, but it stills takes a moment for him to process what that means. He ignores the way his heart speeds up and listens intently.

“It wasn’t very good for me though,” Jack continues, his voice soft and thoughtful. “Kent is a lot of things, but boyfriend material isn’t exactly one of them and maybe things would’ve been different or maybe _I _wanted them to be different, but when I ended up in the hospital… well it became clear that whatever we had wasn’t really built to last. He got drafted and left. I don’t hear from him a lot and that’s mostly because I’ve spent a long time being angry at him.” Jack lets out a sudden noise of frustration and one his hands settles on Eric’s shin. “I wish you could talk, Bittle.”

Eric takes a deep breath and fiddles with his phone again before sitting up properly and handing it over. He leaves his legs in Jack’s lap though.

_He didn’t act like things between you were in the past. _

Jack nods and his shoulders fall a bit. “That’s mostly him being an ass. He likes to get under my skin when he has the chance. He knows me too well; all it took was one of those videos of the fight for him to figure things out.”

_???_

“Bittle, I don’t fight on the ice,” he says seriously.

The air between them is still as that sinks in for Eric. When he blushes it’s slow, but lasting.

_So when you immediately went after that guy…?_

“It wasn’t even a thought. I saw him shove you and I just reacted. It wasn’t exactly like seeing red, but I imagine that might be as close as I get,” Jack explains.

Eric nods and swallows, glancing away into the dark.

“Kent knows I like you. He wanted to talk about a lot of things and I think he wants to be friends again. He was mostly curious about you actually.”

That is another surprise and Eric’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.

Jack shrugs and says, “I don’t get close to that many people. Not anymore at least.”

There’s a lot of things Eric would love to say, but he can’t help putting one in particular at the top of the list. He taps at his screen again and slides it more slowly into Jack’s line of vision.

_You like me?_

It’s amazing to see Jack grin down at the words and then lift his gaze to look back at him. “Yeah, I do. A lot.”

Eric’s fingers tremble as he types his response.

_I like you too._

And then almost immediately after Jack reads it he adds:

_I have so many things I want to say to you._

“It’s been pretty strange not hearing you talk. I miss your rambling,” Jack murmurs, looking at him with a fondness that makes his stomach flutter.

Eric grins then, as best he can, but it makes him wince.

“Is it getting worse? We should get you back to the Haus, you were supposed to take more pain killers like an hour ago.”

_You memorized my dosage times?_

Jack doesn’t look even a little bit embarrassed. “They’re important. You shouldn’t be in pain. C’mon, we’re going back. Up we go,” he says, moving Eric’s legs again and reaching for his hands to help him get vertical.

They walk together in the dark and occasionally Jack reaches out to touch Eric’s elbow like he’s helping him stay on course, but Eric suspects he just wants an excuse to touch and that makes his thoughts swirl.

“You never did tell me why you were sitting outside Faber,” Jack points out as they turn a corner. The lights of the Haus in the distance remind him why he’d wanted to get away in the first place.

_Couldn’t handle the party anymore. I wanted to be on the ice again, but the building was locked._

Jack purses his lips and gives Eric an impressive frown, but it doesn’t last. “You’re not supposed to be on the ice, but I get what you mean. It settles me too.”

Eric nudges Jack’s arm with his shoulder and smiles at him. He loves the things they have in common, he loves that he can relate to Jack and Jack can do the same with him even if they are different in a bunch of small ways. There’s a lot they need to talk about, but Eric supposes they have time for all that. He’s incredibly content basking in the knowledge of his crush not being unrequited. Whatever is happening between them isn’t just a fleeting kiss or a heated moment. All those dreams that made him miserable for so long seem like they could have happened a lifetime ago.

“I never did get to tell you, but you were amazing during the game,” Jack says as they approach the Haus and the music gets louder. It doesn’t seem to cost him anything to be so honest and complimentary. Jack doesn’t hand out praise all the time, but it only makes it more special when he does.

Eric goes red all the way to the tips of his ears and he ducks his head, but he can tell that Jack sees his pleased smile anyway because he reaches over to squeeze his hand briefly. His skin tingles even after Jack pulls away and not even the booming bass of the party, his aching jaw or his worsening headache can ruin that for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posting schedule has slowed to every other Wednesday which is a bummer, but I just have too much going on to post every week. So unless I have a fair amount of writing time in the coming week, you should see an update on Feb 12th. 
> 
> UPDATE: Okay, so, clearly I haven't put up the next chapter and there are multiple reasons for that, but essentially I was sick for most of February, interviewing for jobs that I didn't get, working, trying to refinance my student loans (which let me tell you is streessssfulll) and generally having a horrible time. No worries though, I promise I'm not abandoning this fic, I just need to ask for your patience moving forward! I'm working on the new chapter, but it's slow going. Real life's taking priority at the moment. 
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos! You guys are awesome :D
> 
> @FromTheAtlas is my twitter account if you'd like updates about how the current chapter is coming along!


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